


Spices and Waistcoats

by Invincsum



Category: DI Jill Raymond - Fandom, Lewis (TV), Silent Witness (TV)
Genre: Big Dyke Energy, Big Macho Police Inspector, F/F, Those sexy waistcoats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 76
Words: 112,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Invincsum/pseuds/Invincsum
Relationships: DI Jill Raymond and wife
Comments: 237
Kudos: 179





	1. Chapter 1 :All-Spice

The sky over London had donned on its evening-gown colors hours before I trudged up the wide metal stairs in the former spice works. 

When I’m working a case, it’s the little details that haunt me: the freckles dotting a victim’s cheeks, pigmented souvenirs of a summer shore holiday; the teddy bear sat on the bedside table of a grown woman, threadbare with years of love and secrets kept. Now I imagine I see the aromatic dust, hear the voices in different accents that once occupied this old brick building, now flats for a fortunate few. 

Before I can turn the key in the first lock, the thick wooden door opens. I smile, weariness momentarily lifted. “Hello you. I didn’t realize you were in town tonight,” I say to her as she returns the smile and bestows a kiss on my left cheek as I enter. I turn and draw her to me, kissing her on the lips gently, then with more depth. My fingertips register the damp hair at the nape of her neck, my nostrils inhale the light citrusy scent that means she just showered. I need the life affirmation, the grounding talisman of holding her after a day with the dead.

“Hello to you too, Inspector,” she murmurs, relieving me of my black coat after I slip my shoes off and leave them by the now closed door. “Didn’t want to disturb you on the first day of a new case.” 

She leads me by the hand to the open kitchen area, all stainless steel, copper and teak. She’s added her customary splash of color to the center island: an abundant spray of seasonal flowers in an old steel bucket-cum-vase. In the tall casement windows beyond, I see the Thames, quiet and broodingly dark. In the reflection, I see us, two middle-aged women still deeply in love, years after we met at an alleyway crime scene. 

“I know you think you can subsist on nicotine gum, caffeine and the odd Hob Nob, but I stopped at Fourchette any way,” she says, pointing to a platter of sliced apples, Black Bomber cheddar, candied pecans, balsamic fig jam and rustic crackers. Suddenly, I am ravenous. Groans of delight fill the air, along with her effervescent laughter.

“Slow down, tiger. There’s plenty.” She kisses my head, affectionately rubs my back. Pours me a glass of ice-cold water and adds a dram of single-malt to another. 

We move to the leather Chesterfield in the living room area, me happily chewing away carrying the platter, her carrying the glasses. I stretch out on the sofa, back against one gently worn armrest. She does the same to the other. She’s about six inches shorter than my 5’8”, wearing those thick handknit socks I bought her at a Christmas market last year. She flings another gift—hers to me—over our legs, a blanket she made from repurposed Aran fishermen’s sweaters. 

The cats, Travis and Aimee, saunter over, hop up to nest around our legs. Found on the dock as a runty black kitten with signs of abuse, Travis is now a magnificent plush-pelted panther with the soulful eyes of a deep thinker. Aimee, his glamourous, chatty sidekick and one-time protector, has ermine-white fur with piebald orange markings on her head and plume of a tail. They are inseparable. I get scolded for slipping them tiny bits of the cheese but do it anyway. 

We chat about our days. I broadbrush mine. We’ve made a pact not to deeply discuss any active cases. Mention Clarissa’s mum. How well Mehta is developing as a DS. She tells me about projects her post-graduate students are working on. Within less than half an hour, the food and whisky have hit my stomach, and I am just about ready for bed.

I stretch, untangle our legs, gently move Travis (ruefully noting the disappointed look in his golden eyes) and carry the glasses and platter to the kitchen. She rises too, comes up behind me to rest her head on my upper back, her arms curling around to my waist. Slowly, still behind me, she unbuttons my black waistcoat, then my blue Oxford shirt, cupping my bra with warm hands. She bought me my first waistcoat, a subtle pale-green plaid with a sapphire-blue back, a few years ago. “You can pull it off. And oh my,” she said, making me do a 360-degree turn for her. “Just remember you belong to me and only me.”

“I know it’s late,” she begins, fingertips brushing my nipples, “but maybe a little something to help us sleep?” She is not talking about a pharmaceutical agent. 

“Hmm, let’s see what I have the energy for,” I counter, though my clit has sparked to life with the hardening of my nipples. 

We turn to each other and at least one of us sighs as our mouths meet in a passionate embrace of lips and a dance of tongues. The fingers of my left hand weave through her hair, my right palm massages her right breast through the faded v-neck t-shirt; she wears no bra, has seen my eyes drifting down to her chest whilst trying to keep up with conversation. “Have the energy for”, my arse. She knows I want her, even at the end of an emotionally draining day, knows I need her. 

I make a show of rolling my eyes. “Well, in THAT case,” I say, as if she’s just talked me into it, but she hears the mischievous tone in my lowered voice. “Let me just use the loo.” I pad into the bathroom, close the door. I must admit, I was skeptical when she asked for a bidet to be installed. Now, I’m sold on it for nights like these when a full shower would put me to sleep but the bidet allows me to take care of necessary bits. But then it was certainly more than her good looks that attracted me to her. So much more than a pretty face, my wife is. I’m continually and fervently in awe of her knowledge and intellect.

Entering our bedroom, I squint in the darkness. She lights candles, just a few, then strolls to me to continue undressing me. Trousers get hung, shirt placed in the hamper along with black bra and boy-short knickers. She eyes me up and down, licks her lips. Scars, saggy bits co-exist with a still-firm belly. She’s always teasing me about my “metabolism of a 12-year-old lad”; her figure, now slowly revealed as she yanks off her t-shirt and slips out of her sweatpants, is more feminine with its B-cup breasts, slightly broader hips and thighs. We moor together by the king-size bed with its handmade American quilt (lovingly restored by her), hold each other and kiss—lips, faces, earlobes, napes, décolletage and downward…I groan deeply as my knees buckle. 

“Right, into bed with you, Raymond,” she insists somewhat gruffly. She folds back the quilt and sheets with one hand whilst holding me upright with the other. Eyes glazing over with need, I can only nod and follow her instruction, laying on my back, gratefully sinking into the lush mattress. Grateful, too, to feel her glide atop me, the kissing of our bodies like coming home all over again.

“Let me, Jill. Please,” she makes it a request. I answer by kissing her deeply, pulling her sweet arse closer as she slips a thigh between my legs. A grunted “Mmm,” is all I can manage by way of consent. She smirks cheekily, triumphantly, though it truly is a win-win scenario. Her hungry mouth firmly latches onto one of my breasts, teeth grazing pebbled nipple, tongue then laving and loving. Dear God…my hips buck, clit throbs, my lust coats her thigh. 

“Oh, you are so ready for me, aren’t you, darling,” she murmurs between kisses. Her right hand dips between my legs and then she shows me my wetness, moans with delight as her tongue samples. 

“Fuck me. I-I need you to fill me,” I stammer. Articulating my needs during lovemaking is something I’ve always struggled with. She’s proven to be an excellent mentor, leading by example, even though I was the only one of us with experience loving another woman when we met. 

Now she kisses me to seal the promise and pulls back to watch my face as two earnest fingers enter me, followed quickly by a third. I moan as she stretches me, hips rising to deepen our connection. Her thumb deftly massages my pulsing clit. “That’s it, baby. Fuck my fingers. Ride them,” she urges in a whisper against my ear. Again, her blue pupils, given a smoky hue by desire, hold my gaze in a vice. 

I used to be embarrassed by her staring at such times; I didn’t like feeling vulnerable and exposed. She lovingly taught me what a huge turn-on such eye contact was for her so my eyes lock rock-steady onto hers we rock steadily with growing urgency. My excitement builds and yet shrinks to a narrow intensity centered on my clit, now throbbing. I swear when she fucks me, it feels like the tiny bundle of nerves shoots sparks. The focus narrows, my body a tightly coiled spring. Tighter, tighter and…

Then…the fireworks flash and fury of an incredible climax rips a near-scream from my throat, from my soul. 

“Yes! Oh, God, you’re so fucking beautiful when you come. Incandescent,” she whispers as if sharing a precious secret as aftershocks unfurl through me, leaving me gasping, dry mouthed, incapable of anything but groans. With delicate care, she eases out of me and scoots up to rest in arms that can barely grip her slim shoulders.  
Lassitude overtakes me and I doze for a few minutes. My sense of smell kicks in even before my eyes can open. She’s kneeling beside me, has glossed my lips with her arousal and is now finger-painting her breasts like a fairy spreading the morning dew. 

“Ah, there you are,” she exclaims, quite proud of herself. She alone knows a side of Detective Inspector Jillian Rebecca Raymond that no one else gets to see. (That some less-than-happy criminals and even disgruntled, envious colleagues have wondered and whispered about being non-existent.) 

“You’ve only yourself to blame for my unexpected absence,” I huskily retort after taking several sips from the water glass she hands me. “Thank you, darling, for that incredible orgasm.” 

I put the glass back down, run my fingers through her short blond hair, cup her neck to bring her into a deep kiss that reignites the embers in my groin. Suddenly, I am famished and aching for her body. I’m not sure how much stamina is left in my weary and now-sated body but I’ll be damned if I will let her go to sleep without showing her how much I want her, love her, need her. She moans as my fingers capture her right nipple, rolling it between thumb and index finger then barely skipping over it with my palm. 

I see the two tiny moles—one about two inches above the other—near her left breast. My North Stars, I call them, and rise up to greet them now with broad sweeping strokes of my tongue. My tongue dances over to her left nipple, swirling in slow circles around the areola; she bites her lower lip as she watches me lick off the wetness she painted onto herself, hears my groan of joy as I taste her need. 

She tastes sweet, smoky, she is her own unique spice. Like musky smoked caramel. My favorite dessert now and forever. 

“God, how I love your sweet nectar,” I assure her, for she still sometimes falls back into old insecurities about how she thinks she should look, smell or taste, despite what she had just done to me, was still doing to me. So I have learned to give her what she needs, to overcome my shyness about speaking of such intimate details. Funny how I can discuss horrible, ghastly injuries all day long at work without batting an eye but struggle one-on-one to share my feelings and thoughts while making love to my wife. 

As my fingers clasp and stroll through her thick hare-brown bush, I continue. “I need more of it, darling,” I assert. With a wolf-like growl, I try to flip her onto her back, but she’s having none of it. 

“Nope, you just lie back down,” she resists, pushing down on my shoulders and straddling me. “I’ve got this, my love.” She does permit me to finger her breasts and lean up on my elbows to capture one nipple with my hungry mouth. I eagerly tug with my lips, allowing my tongue to flicker over the hardened rosy nipple, relishing the whimpers she makes. We let our tongue, teeth and lips speak their near-silent language for a while until she pulls back. Our gazes are hazy, breath labored.

“I need your tongue on me, down here,” she almost shyly shifts her gaze from my face to her own crotch. 

Before I can respond, she grabs the headboard with both hands and positions herself inches above my face, legs wide. Figuratively and literally open to me like the most exquisite flower I’ve been seen. I’m momentarily stunned to silence by the beauty of her sex, by the palpable intensity of her need, by the boldness of her move. While our lovemaking is always satisfying, our hectic work schedules have lately meant we’ve fallen back on tried-and-true positions and techniques. With this stance, she is putting me on notice that she wants—will demand—more of me, of us. More variety, more passion, more, damn it! 

“Oh, my love,” I whisper reverently. “Let me show you how much I adore you.” 

My guttural groan hums against her sex and I plant devotional kisses on her mons, her clitoral hood, at her dripping slit. My fingers hold open her swollen labia as my tongue happily laps up her arousal. With slow, long strokes, I glide over her beautiful landscape. My tongue caresses her vaginal opening, worships her hood. I take her in my mouth and sucks out as much nectar as I can, my tongue now concentrating on that tiny pearl inside. I coax her to the edge several times, then pull back again, focusing anew on the endless flow of dew from her slit before returning to her clit. 

“Yes, oh fuck yes,” she says, and I know she is telling herself that this, exactly this, is what she has needed and at the same time she is letting me know to keep going. 

She mews, moans, pants, breaks out in a sweat. Her fingers grip the wooden headboard so tightly that her hands turn white. 

“I need to come. Now,” she grits out between pants. “I can’t wait any longer.” 

“Come, darling,” I urge. And with a final deep suck from my lips, she crests her peak and crashes over the side. My face glistens, I’m sure, with her essence, as I swim under the sweetest waterfall. 

She collapses onto the pillow next to me and I gather her in my arms as she rides out the aftershocks. She gasps and groans, holds onto me as I stroke her hair, kiss her forehead and cheeks, guide her back to shore. Tell her how much I love her. How grateful I am for this evening, for her, for us. How much I love licking her, giving her pleasure. Murmur sweet nothings into her ear as I feel the tears christen my chest. Feel my own tears escape from my eyes and run down my temples. 

We are one. We are home. 

Gradually, we each stir. Exchange gentle kisses, a few playful nips and knowing glances. We need no words now to communicate, simply pull the covers back over shivering, now-cooled bodies and spoon, my longer frame curled around the back of hers, her hand clasping mine just under her breast. 

Aimee and Travis wander in, meow and jump up on the bed to nestle around our legs. They’ve learned that when their mummies are making odd noises in the bedroom, it’s best to stay away til we stop. Tomorrow is Saturday; I can sleep in a bit and their internal feline clocks know that. 

“I love you with all my heart, Laura Hobson,” I sigh into her hair. 

“And I love you the same, Jill Raymond,” she replies drowsily. 

We drift off, the day put to bed in the best way possible.


	2. Lemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more about Di Jill Raymond and her wife, Dr. Laura Hobson, late of Inspector Morse and Lewis. The next couple of chapters will provide some background to our heroines. Note: The next two chapters will be "general audience" rated.

Coffee brewing, fresh scones baking, sun sneaking ‘round the curtains like a child playing peek-a-boo: these along with a full bladder nudge my senses awake this Saturday. It doesn’t help that big mush Travis has mortared himself to my lower abdomen. 

“Come on now, pal,” I convince him to move away though he looks as if I just told him to jump off the dock. Travis: all the feels of a moody teen. After using the bathroom, I don an old Oxford hoodie and sweat pants and pad into the kitchen. Laura is hyper-focused on her tablet and doesn’t seem to hear me approach as I slip my arms around her from the back and pretend to be a playful wolf. 

“Morning, love,” I growl, nibbling on her earlobe. “I’m starving.” 

She jumps a bit but laughs. “I’m going to have to put a bell ‘round your neck!” She turns in my arms to kiss me full on the lips, making me very glad I brushed my teeth and washed my face. She sniffs all the same, nostrils searching in vain for a hint of last night’s lovemaking. She pouts like a 5-year-old denied a lolly.

“Sorry, I washed up. We’ll simply have to do that again,” I whisper cheekily, an IOU that I know she’ll gladly pocket. “Last night was…” arousal shoots through my body again and I grunt. She looks concerned. 

“You OK?” She reaches for my lower back to feel for spasms but finds none. Then I see the light bulb go off. “Hmm,” she says, her voice dropping down a register. “I feel the same, love.” 

She gives my bottom a swat. “Any idea about dinner tonight?” 

We discuss our plans for the day. She’s meeting a friend for lunch and then will review intern applications; this fall, she’s arranged for a grad student to shadow her at her Oxford gig. Laura used to be the chief forensic pathologist in Oxford but scaled back her schedule and responsibilities when given the opportunity to teach here in London.   
I’ve got to meet with the Lyell team now that Nikki has chipped the skeleton out of its homemade tomb. Yesterday, we couldn’t even tell whether it was more than a skull, a reddish-brown object that brought to mind petrified wood. 

“Want me to pick up some Thai on the way home, love?” I ask, pouring myself a large mug of the Sumatra/Ethiopian blend we favor. A small moan escapes my lips with the first sip.

“As long as your moans can only ever be sourced to me or coffee…” she quips, nuzzling against my chest. I put down the mug, cup her chin in my right hand, stunned, a bit hurt.

“How can you even think…” I start. She knows what Helen did to me. But then I realize it’s not my fidelity she’s questioning, it’s her wondering again whether she measures up to whatever an ideal lesbian is supposed to be. She was 50 when we met 5 years ago, a successful single woman in a demanding field who never expected to find a life partner, male or female.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those of you who gave kudos and comments here and elsewhere and encouraged me to continue! Constructive criticism always appreciated. I hesitated to start the story off with the bang of explicit sex but that seemed to be what the characters wanted.


	3. No Scent Like Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is told from Laura Hobson's perspective, as Chapter 4 will be too.

“Dr Hobson? I’m DI Raymond. What do you have?” the owner of the deceptively soft voice wore lime-green Converse low-tops, minus laces and socks. We were in an alleyway near the center of Oxford, in a section known for its antique shops. 

“Put these on, please,” I handed her up a pair of boot covers from my work bag without looking up. “This is a crime scene, not a café. Here, get some gloves, booties and a suit from my car boot. It’s the Volvo wagon over there.” 

“Right, sorry. Actually, I WAS in a café when I got the call,” the now-sheepish voice explained. “My day off and my DS has the flu so I’m flying solo.” The voice receded as she began to walk away toward my wagon. I glanced up to see the back of a tall blonde in an olive field jacket and skinny blue jeans. Her hair rubber-banded back in a nearly-too-short ponytail. 

“Not my problem,” I muttered under my breath as I slid the long thermometer into the victim’s liver. 

“Didn’t say it was, Doctor,” she called over her shoulder, a touch of levity in her tone. Ears of an owl, that one, I thought. I stood, knees creaking, and cleaned off the thermometer.

“Can we start again,” I said sticking out my hand as she approaches, fully gloved up, suited and bootied. “You’re one up on me if you’ve already had a coffee. Laura Hobson. I was just grinding my morning joe when I got the call.”

She smiled. Put up a hand to say “Wait” and trotted back to an aging VW Jetta. Returned with two paper cups, still hot from the café, handed me one. “Nearly forgot. I always bring a cup for my DS so it’s habit. His wife makes him the most atrocious instant coffee. As long as you don’t mind it with a splash of milk. And it’s Jill.” 

“You’re a hero, Jill,” I told her, beaming. “Cheers!” The first sip was heaven. “Right then, let’s see what we’ve got.” 

The victim was an older female who’d been beaten in what appeared to be a robbery. Her right arm was dislocated as she apparently fought to keep her handbag, which lay with its contents scattered, at her side. Among her injuries were a fracture to the top of the occipital bone with what appeared to be brick dust embedded in it. Death would have come quickly once her head impacted the brick wall behind her. The bruises to her face and hands probably came first as she fought off her attacker. Her now-clouded blue eyes were fixed in horror. 

As we discussed the victim’s obvious injuries, there was a commotion at the opening to the alley. A tall burly man in his forties charged forward past the constables, yelling “Ma! Oh no, Ma!” A woman stood behind him, trying in vain to pull him back. “Joe!” she shouted. 

He was on us in a flash. DI Raymond stood, blocking his view of the victim. She put up a cautioning hand and stepped forward. “Sir, you need to step back---” 

“She’s my mother!” he screamed as his right fist connected with Jill Raymond’s face, an engraved Masonic ring ripping into the soft flesh at the corner of her left eye. The force of his blow rocked her, but she somehow kept her balance. Two constables managed to grab him and wrestle him back to the alley entrance. 

Jill shook her head like a dog to clear it, put her hand to her eye. When she heard them start to place him under arrest for assault, she strode over to them. The man, by then subdued and sobbing but still handcuffed, blurted out an apology. She nodded to the officers to release the cuffs. 

“I’m DI Raymond. You are?” She got the details from him. Informed him he would have to come to the mortuary later to formally identify his mother, assured him she would not press charges. 

As she walked back to me, I cringed. Her left eye was bloodshot, a deep purple bruise rapidly swelling around her eye socket and the craggy wound left by the ring bled down her cheek and onto the collar of her cream-colored v-neck tee. 

“What?” she asked, seeing the look on my face. “There goes my career as a super model, eh?” She gave me a lopsided, sardonic smirk and pulled a red bandana from a jacket pocket.

I found a fresh bottle of water, opened it and poured some onto her bandana so she could staunch the blood. She stood to the side, leaning on a dumpster, and watched me finish up with the victim, nod to the attendants to carry her off to the mortuary. I put away my tools and carted them back to my wagon. She followed. 

“Will you be starting the PM when you get back?” she asked, wincing as she saw her wound was still bleeding. 

“Tomorrow. We’re backed up. But why don’t you follow me back, if you’re ok to drive? I can patch you up before we start—and give you a freshly made coffee, my own blend,” I added as incentive. She smiled at that, nodded her thanks and walked back toward her car. 

Back at the mortuary, I showed her into my office, let her hang up her jacket on a hook and we walked into the nearby staff kitchen. I opened the air-tight canister of whole beans, let her have a sniff, and get about grinding the beans and starting the coffee machine. Brought her into the post mortem room and motioned for her to sit on a stool while I donned gloves and prepared what I needed. 

“Sorry about the ambiance. But trust me you’ll be done at lot quicker than in the ED,” I noted. She “Mmm’d” and tried not to look at the lidocaine needle. As I approached with the optical cleaning solution, she dutifully closed her eyes and stayed stock still. I told her to take a deep breath and counted to 3, at which point I injected the lidocaine into the area near the wound. She grunted and hissed but didn’t move. 

“Good girl,” I said, though I realized how stupid that sounded. Hence, why the public was far better served with me in forensic pathology than a general practice somewhere. I giggled at that thought, which garnered me a quirked right eyebrow (the left now numbed and immobile) and explained my outburst. 

Suddenly it was as though someone let a large goose loose in the room. A great series of honks erupted from DI Raymond, which only made me giggle more. What a charmingly outrageous sound! 

Once we settled down, I thoroughly cleaned the gash, gently patted it dry and sewed in a handful of small sutures. I noted that she had the most beautiful deep hazel eyes. (I’d called ahead for my assistant, Leo Merton, to secure some of the ED’s finer suturing thread as all we had was the heavy-duty stuff used for the “Y” incision. My experience as a crafter came in handy—the scar is now barely visible as it naturally falls within the laugh lines around Jill’s eye.)

I then gave her a clean t-shirt I kept in the office to wear under my scrubs; she was grateful for one not soggy with her own blood. To my surprise, she pulled off her shirt right in front of me, revealing a black cotton sports bra cupping small breasts. As she eased the clean shirt over her head, she saw me shyly look away.“

Sorry, used to having brothers pop in on me all the time for sport. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she said, wincing as she straightened her hair and grazed her left eye. 

“No, no problem. I’m just not used to people dressing in my office. Usually I’m the one doing the undressing in this mortuary,” I said lightly. Was the room suddenly warm? 

She smirked. “Is that coffee ready? I think we’ve both earned a cup,” she said, sweetly changing the subject. 

We chatted a bit over coffee. I gave her an ice pack for her face along with care instructions. She left soon after, thanking me again and saying she’d be back tomorrow for the PM. I wasn’t sure why, but I found myself looking forward to the next day. 

When she returned the following day, she brought a coughing DS Quinn and a cardboard tray with three coffees, one of which she handed to me. Her eye looked worse—all angry purple with hints of blue and green. She smiled as I examined it, grunting a bit at its tenderness. 

“Took a bit of grief back at the station for letting you near my face, given your usual suturing subjects,” she admitted with a grin. “I said I’d risk it for the coffee alone. Thanks again for helping me yesterday.” 

I accepted the compliment and noted to myself that she did in fact clean up well. That day, she wore a crisp blue button-down shirt, slim black trousers and a black suit jacket. Gone were the trainers, replaced by maroon leather monk straps with a rugged sole. A simple yet elegant square watch and plain gold stud earrings were her only jewelry. No wedding band in sight which for some reason made me smile. Perhaps, I told myself at the time, it was nice to meet another single professional woman of the same age. A kindred spirit in the field of criminal justice

A week later, she called to arrange a time to get the sutures removed. The bruising had faded to yellows. She handed me a pound of my favorite coffee blend, whole beans, and the t-shirt she’d borrowed and washed. 

“I asked Leo for the name of your coffee blend and the shop,” she explained, giving me a broad smile that crinkled her eyes and reminded me of a happy golden retriever. 

Her thoughtfulness charmed me. I might have even blushed. I cleared my throat. “Well thank you, that was so lovely of you! Now let’s get those sutures out.” 

A week later, DI Raymond and DS Quinn solved the mystery of the woman in the alleyway. Her daughter-in-law, the woman stood behind the burly son that morning, had done it. She knew her mother-in-law was transporting a load of cash from a big antique sale and was desperate to pay off some debt she’d accrued without her husband’s knowledge. My findings at the post mortem—the angle at which the woman’s head hit the brick wall, among them—had led Raymond and Quinn to shift focus from thinking of taller male assailants to someone with whom the victim would 1) have been able to fend off more fiercely and 2) was shorter than the average male.

The next day, a grinning Leo carried in a beautiful orchid, all delicate pinks and purple, in a ceramic pot. Attached was a handwritten note:   
“Laura,   
Your work made all the difference in helping solve the June Decker case. Please accept this token of gratitude for that and your handy work on my eye. Will you have dinner with me?   
Jill”


	4. Top Notes

“What a gorgeous orchid!” Leo exclaimed, removing the watering instructions for the plant and putting them in his front shirt pocket behind the colorful pocket square. He knew he would very likely be keeping the orchid alive for me. “A certain detective inspector has excellent taste in flora.” 

“Hmm…Leo…I’m curious about something,” his comment jogged my memory the first time I saw Jill Raymond in the mortuary suite. “You and she exchanged a wink or a nod when she came here. What was that about?” 

“It was just a ‘family’ thing…” he said, then, seeing my puzzled expression, “You know, ‘family’ as in fellow LGBTQ. We still give a little nod or wink to acknowledge each other. Like ‘Hey girl hey.’ ” He swirled his hand in a languid salute.

“DI Raymond is gay?” God, I must have seemed like a countrified simpleton. 

I received a patented Leo Merton eye roll for that. “Is Judy Garland my patron saint? Of course, she is, Dr H. Everyone knows that, she’s not in the closet, she simply doesn’t bedazzle herself in rainbows or hum k.d. lang tunes.” 

He knew he was running the risk of being too sarcastic and took sympathy on me. “She really is a lovely person, behind that stern exterior. My Frank says she always makes sure the uniforms have coffee for late shifts and usually buys the first round for all when they win a case—not just the detectives.” Leo’s husband Frank was a newly minted detective constable, just out of uniform. With that, he left me holding the note and staring at the phone. 

Was Jill Raymond asking me on a date? Did she assume—falsely, I might add--I was a lesbian too? Or was she simply being nice colleague-to-colleague? Did it matter? I wasn’t homophobic—Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, Jill’s chief, was a dear friend; she and Mandy had been together forever. 

I sighed. Picked up the phone and punched in Jill’s mobile number. It went straight to voice mail so I left a message thanking her for the orchid and accepting her invitation to dinner. Left my personal mobile number and rung off. 

Later that evening, she called back. For some reason, seeing her number made me smile. She sounded tired. 

“Long day?” I asked. Desmond, my Turkish Van cat, and I were curled up on the sofa. He was licking one of my bare feet, I rubbed the other against his soft, tense white fur.

“Hmm,” she replied. “Finishing up a case and doing all the ruddy paperwork.” We exchanged pleasantries for a few moments. 

“About dinner,” she paused. “Where would you like to go?” 

I’d given it some thought. “Are you up for an adventure? There’s a new place I’ve been wanting to check out…it’s very casual…” 

“I like it already,” she said. We arranged to meet Friday after work at her station. I needed to drop off a casserole dish for Jean from our last dinner. 

Suddenly, Desmond bit down on my big toe. “Ouch. Dammit Des, that hurt!” His two-tone green eyes widened and off he ran. “Sorry, he sometimes forgets to keep his teeth to himself.” There was silence on the other end of the line. 

“Jill?” 

“I’m so sorry, Laura. I didn’t mean to interrupt you in the middle of something. I’ll catch you later. Enjoy the evening,” and she was gone. 

“In the middle of some---oh,” I said aloud to Desmond, who had returned with a “mea culpa” look on his face. “Inspector Raymond thinks you’re a human bloke, old chap,” I told him with a snigger. Poor Jill had thought she’d caught me in bed with a man. I would have to show her a photo of Des when we met for dinner.


	5. Amber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarifications.

I ended the call and stared at the phone. Clearly, I’d called at a bad time. It sounded as though the good doctor was entertaining some fellow named Des who was using his teeth somewhere on her. So she is straight. 

Laura Hobson had set off my gaydar when we met a few weeks back at the June Decker murder scene. Something about her no-nonsense style and attire (Oxford shirt, Fair Isle vest, forest-green cords and rugged hiking brogues) hinted at a soft-butch sartorial style. Welp, my gaydar was often off with women, I thought, shaking my head. Men, I was spot on about 95 percent of the time. But women…I sighed. 

Come on, Raymond. You are only inviting her for a collegial dinner. Not a date. I knew this, of course, but couldn’t shake a small sense of disappointment, nonetheless. Still, I did enjoy Laura Hobson’s company and looked forward to getting to know her better as a friend and colleague. 

That Friday night seemed to be ages in arriving. Much of the week, I was in court, testifying on a couple of homicide cases that had reached the trial phase. A lot of standing around, waiting to be called into the courtroom. I busied myself making calls on a cold case, getting my receipts squared away and making arrangements to meet my 12-year-old niece for a belated birthday get-together a week from Sunday. Becca wanted to learn how to knit and I knew the perfect place to take her, a wool and fibre arts shop right in Oxford that offered private lessons for beginners. There was a tearoom next door so I reserved us a table for after the lesson. 

Laura arrived at the station earlier than our 5:30 meet-up time, stopped at my desk to say hello and strode into Jean Innocent’s office. My phone rang and as I answered it, I saw the women exchange smiles and hugs. Innocent ribbed her about something and they both laughed. 

“Inspector?” the detective on the phone was expecting a reply. I apologized and focused back on our conversation. 

Within 5 minutes, I wrapped up the call, turned off my laptop and locked it away and unrolling my shirt sleeves. Dr Hobson caught my eye, stood. She and my boss glanced my way. I could see Jean Innocent say something, wink, and then shoo her friend back to my desk after a quick hug. 

I pulled my coat on as I greeted Laura, opening the door to the squad room for her to exit first. We decided to take Laura’s car as she knew the restaurant’s location. As we entered the spotlessly clean vehicle, I broke the ice. 

“So I’m guessing you’re ‘Scary Mary’, but is Jean Innocent ‘Slap’ or ‘Godzilla’?” I asked cheekily, referring to characters from the Scott & Bailey detective series. (Scary Mary Jackson was the pathologist who performed post portems; Julie “Slap” Dodson and Gill “Godzilla” Murray were senior investigating officers.) She laughed heartily.

“Well, I’d rather fancied myself as ‘Slap’—quick with the quips and all—but if we’re going job-to-job, I guess she’d be Godzilla as she’s your boss,” Laura responded with a wink. My turn to laugh, which only made her laugh harder. 

“Where on earth did you get that laugh? Do you have goose in your DNA?” she asked, wiping tears from her eyes. 

“I dunno,” I said, quite honestly. “It just came out of my mouth one day when I was a kid and hasn’t left.” 

“Well, it’s lovely,” she said. She started the engine. Her expression changed. “Look,” she started a bit hesitantly. “I just want to talk about a couple of things before we get going.” I nodded. She continued. “Did you ask me out on a date. I mean, is this a date?” 

I blinked, stuttered. “I-uh…

“I have to ask because I’m guessing you wouldn’t give an orchid to a male colleague and…” she added. She looked as uncomfortable as I felt. 

I tried again. I unbuckled my seat belt so I could face her better—and so I could make a somewhat more graceful exit if need arose. “You’re right, I probably would not have given a man an orchid—unless I knew he really liked orchids a la Nero Wolfe. I find men tend to prefer cigars or a bottle of their favorite whisky so one of those is more likely to be what I would give someone who helped with a case and stitched up my face so beautifully. 

“The dinner invite, probably not. Because the reason I asked you was to get to know a female colleague better. The men still have their old-boys’ network. I believe we should have one of our own. I’ve extended the offer to other female detectives too on occasion,” I explained. 

I tried to keep my tone even, not letting any defensiveness creep in but I sense I didn’t fully succeed. “I’m guessing you have found out that I’m a lesbian, which is fine. I’m out in all aspects of my life. But would you have asked these questions of a straight female inspector?” 

Now Laura blinked and looked a bit taken aback by my question.


	6. Chapter 6

Jill Raymond’s hazel eyes dove into my soul with that question. I looked down, embarrassed by my narrow-mindedness. She took pity on me. 

“You said there were a couple of things you wanted to discuss. What was the other?” she gently asked, her expression softening along with her voice. 

“Oh, um, only that I think I may have given you the wrong impression the other night when you called and I yelped when Desmond bit me,” I said, pulling out my mobile. The home screen lit up and I passed her the phone so she could see the image on it. 

“Uh, THIS is Des, Desmond. He is a male but he’s not my husband or boyfriend. I don’t have one of either,” I said, giving her a weak smile. “He’s the only male in my life—although he would argue that he’s officially genderless,” I added. Jill’s face now mirroring the grin that formed on my face. 

“Well, isn’t he a handsome lad,” she exclaimed. I showed her a few more photos of the nearly 20-pound beast, including one of him playing in the tub—and was rewarded with that honking laugh again. We chatted for a few moments about how I came to adopt him after his previous owner, an elderly neighbor, had gone into a care home. 

After a moment or so of silence, I tentatively asked, “Jill: Can we be friends? I am sorry for my small-mindedness. It was very kind of you to ask me to dinner. I shouldn’t have gone looking for ulterior motives—and even if you had asked me as a date, I should note that a woman would be very lucky to be asked out by you, Inspector.” 

We both relaxed, the tension in the Volvo’s cabin eased considerably. My stomach growled and we both laughed. Jill re-engaged her safety belt and I put the car in gear. From then on, we conversed about town-and-gown life before arriving about 15 minutes later at a side street. Next to a launderette, stood a narrow-but-deep store front with a line of customers wrapped around the corner. The warm aroma of fried onions filled my lungs and made my mouth salivate as we stepped out of the car and walked toward the restaurant. 

“Don’t worry,” I shot her a conspiratorial glance. “I know the owner and he’s saved us a table.”

“Dr Laura Hobson: forensic pathologist, feline mum and mind-reader,” she quipped.


	7. Gravy and Cola

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn a bit about DI Raymond's past.

We squeezed through the line, letting those waiting for take-away orders know we were dining in, not cutting in. A tall slim man in his mid-20s approached us with open arms. His dark brown hair was clipped short and he sported a full, well-maintained beard. His green eyes sparkled as he saw Laura and me enter. 

“Dr Hobson—Laura,” he said with an American accent and informality. They hugged and she introduced me to Dr Declan Ippolitto. He had been her intern the previous year, hailing from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. They had met there several years before when she was in Philly for a conference and a friend had taken her to the Ippolitto family’s Italian restaurant. They’d kept up a correspondence when she learned Declan planned to study forensic pathology and she helped him secure the internship. 

About 3 months ago, his father died and his mother couldn’t bear to be far from her only son (now continuing his studies at Oxford) so she and one of his sisters came over to open a “steak sandwich” and “hoagie” shop. Judging by the line and telephone ringing, it was a raging success. Declan introduced us to his mother, a cheerful red-headed woman about our age who manned the register, and he showed us to one of the handful of tables near the window. We each ordered a diet Coke and glanced up at the large menu board over the counter. 

Laura happily rattled off descriptions of a “steak sandwich” and “hoagie” (pronounced “hoe-gee, said like “key”, a submarine or hero sandwich). I wiped at my mouth, concerned I was about to drool. We settled on a cheese steak each with fried onions, one with provolone cheese, the other with an authentic cheesy sauce called “Cheese Whiz”. That way, we could share and contrast. Declan’s mother, Kathy, stopped by with a pile of “disco fries”—long chips with brown gravy and Cheese Whiz—compliments of the house, she said.   
The chips, er, fries, were crisp on the outside, soft and gooey with the cheesy gravy…and were delicious, particularly at the end of a long work week. I nodded my approval to Laura, who grinned back. Grub like this could easily become a staple during future murder squad investigations, I noted. 

Our knees touched under the tiny table. I tried not to think about her skin underneath the denim jeans. No, this was not a date, but I am human. I was grateful when a few minutes later, Kathy arrived bearing plastic baskets lined with wax paper. Nestled inside were the sandwiches. She gave us a pile of paper napkins and left with a wink. We tucked in our napkins and tucked into the sandwiches. Soon, we each groaned with happiness. The steak, thinly-sliced rib eye, perfectly grilled onions and the melted cheese…no wonder the shop had lines out the door. 

“Here,” Laura reached across and wiped my chin with a napkin, just before a gob of disco sauce would have landed on my shirt. 

“Chivalry is alive and well in Oxford,” I nodded my thanks. She blushed, ducked her head and grabbed another chip. 

“So,” Laura began. “Jean Innocent said to ask you about your title? Is there a good story there? She seemed highly amused.” 

I winced as the out-of-the-blue question caught me off guard and I bit down on my tongue rather than a piece of steak. Holding up a hand to gesture “Wait”, I more carefully chewed my mouthful, took a sip of cold soda and tried to smile. 

“Are you alright? I didn’t mean to startle you,” Laura assured me, her brow furrowed with concern. I forced myself to smile. So that’s what Innocent and Laura had been talking about when I saw them look in my direction earlier. 

“Well, uh…my father had inherited his father’s title, the earl of Amherst, but like Tony Benn, Dad renounced his earldom. But for a few days between Granddad’s death in 1978 and Dad’s renouncement, I was Lady Jillian Rebecca Renfrew-Raymond,” I explained, blushing a bit. I didn’t often have cause to reveal my full name and I didn’t want it the revelation to change how Laura thought of me. 

She squinted. “Any relation to the City firm Renfrew-Raymond?” she asked. 

“My older brother Harold’s firm, yes,” I acknowledged. “Hal’s got the Midas touch but, like our father, is very much a progressive who believes in giving back. One of his new projects is finding small businesses, often family-run affairs, and giving them the tools they need to grow strong roots within their community,” I said. “Sometimes, I help him identify prospective businesses with which to partner.” 

Laura looked impressed. “I read about that initiative and thought ‘Well done!’ It’s not often you hear of a kind-hearted City man.” She paused to sip her drink. “Am I correct in guessing that you don’t talk much about your family’s background? I think Jean Innocent was just—”

“She does like to wind me up about it,” I explained, dipping a chip into a small pool of the gravy. “I’m not embarrassed by my family’s history but I’ve worked damned hard to gain the respect of my peers—no pun intended, ha—colleagues. I’ve never asked for nor do I want to be treated with kid gloves. That’s why I don’t use ‘Renfrew-Raymond.’” 

I felt a hand on my forearm. “Well, if I promise not to tell anyone and never to refer to you as ‘Lady Jillian’, can we draw a veil over it?” Laura asked, kindness shining in her eyes. I nod, pop the chip into my mouth. I glance over at the next table, where a college-age couple are rummaging through their pockets, trying to find enough money to pay for their dinner. I remembered what that was like—as a uni student and even as a young constable. Dad believed in keeping my college stipend at 1960s levels (“You’re supposed to be studying, not partying, my girl!”) and then a constable’s paycheck didn’t go far. 

“So, important questions,” Laura started, breaking through my woolgathering. “Provolone or Whiz? And would you like to get a cappuccino somewhere?” 

“Uh, believe or not, the Whiz worked just as well for me. And yes, would love to get some. Will you excuse me for a minute?” I stood and pointed to the sign for the loo. I walked to Kathy at the register, whispered into her ear, nodded toward the other table. She tried to tell me ours was on the house, but I demurred and handed her enough for ours and the other table’s tabs, nodding at the young couple. She smiled. I walked back to the loo and returned to our table a few minutes later. The couple at the other table were just leaving, looks of surprise and joy on their faces. 

Laura saw this and asked as I sat down, “What did you do?” 

“What? I paid for our dinner and told Kathy she’d be hearing from the squad room sometime soon for a big order,” I said with a shrug and a wink. “Now, I dunno about you, Doctor, but I could certainly go for another caffeine fix right about now. Shall we?”


	8. Lavender and Cedar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More slow-burn back story of our dynamic duo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a shout-out to RainbowKatie (same page, gf!). Hope you like "Miss Katie". :-) And a loving dedication to our Desmond. He may not see his 16th birthday but he'll always have a cottage in my heart.

I knew instinctively that Jill Raymond paid for those students’ dinner not to show off but as an empathetic act of kindness. I remembered how she handled Joe Decker at the scene of his mother’s murder. Upset or not, he’d assaulted a police officer. Yet she strode over to him, got the constables to uncuff him and assured him she wouldn’t press charges. Many a male officer would have had his ego hurt and ensured full charges stuck. Not Jill. Sometime later, I heard from Jean that Jill’d convinced Joe’s wife to plead guilty and spare Joe and the rest of their family the pain of a trial. 

Once we got past the “Is it a date or isn’t it?” and the “title” conversation, we truly enjoyed simply spending time together that evening. After coffee and a couple of biscotti (dipped in warm chocolate) from a mutually favorite (it turned out) café, we parted back at police headquarters with a hug of friendship. And I may have even surprised both of us by giving her a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

(We decided to make Friday, post-work dinners a regular event. Sometimes, we’d explore a new restaurant. Others, I’d have Jill over to my place, a cottage about 20 minutes from downtown Oxford, where she always ended the evening with her black trousers nearly snow-white with Desmond’s thick fur. The large boy had taken quite a liking to her and she to him. Mutual admiration society, they were. Years after his passing at the age of 16, I would still find Desmond’s sturdy white hairs on her waistcoats and go to pluck them off. She’d bat my hand away and tell me to leave them just where they were, my big macho police inspector with the big mushy heart.) 

The next time we met up outside of a crime scene or my office was unexpected but a wonderful surprise. It was a Sunday a week or so after our second dinner and I trekked over to my favorite fiber arts shop in town to pick up some yarn and devote a few hours to pure relaxation in one of my “happy places”. I’d learned to knit from a childhood neighbor, Miss Katie, who seemed able to do anything crafty. She could build dollhouse furniture from wood found on walks, mend the leg of my favorite stuffed bear (that my younger sister’d nearly ripped off), knit colorful sweaters and bake ginormous American-style chocolate-chip cookies. In short, I adored her. (Still do and faithfully visit her regularly at the care home where she resides.)

As I breathed in the slight aroma of lavender (to keep moths away) and looked around, I spotted the unmistakably lanky and laid-back figure folded into a wingback chair near the front of the shop (where husbands usually sat waiting for wives to “hurry up”). That day, she was dressed down in dark denim jeans, well-worn loafers (sans socks again) and a crisp white shirt. She had black reading glasses perched atop her crown of weekend-messy blonde hair and was pulling a forlorn stuffed rabbit out of a waxed canvas tote. One of the bunny’s ears flopped unnaturally, hanging on literally by a few threads.

“Right, should I schedule the PM for tomorrow morning?” I said, walking over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“Heavens, are you doing here?!” Jill unfurled her long legs and jumped up to hug me, still holding the bunny. “Ah, silly question…No, I think Mr. Bunnifield can be saved. That’s my plan whilst my niece Becca (she nodded to a brunette mini-Jill Raymond awkwardly holding knitting needles and taking instruction from one of the owners’ grown daughters) is getting a knitting lesson. It’s what she wanted for her twelveth birthday. Along with tea next door.” 

“Chelsea’s an outstanding instructor,” I assured her, having watched the young woman grow up in the shop. “Care for a cuppa? I can bring one over here for each of us,” I offered, noting the shop allowed beverages only in this section. She gave me a smile that could repair a whole warren of Bunnifields in an instant. I already had come to think of this as Jill’s happy puppy-dog look. 

A few minutes later, I returned with two paper mugs of tea, each with a splash of milk and one sugar cube. She thanked me. By now, she had begun the delicate task of surgically reattaching the ear. 

“Wait, YOU’RE the surgeon?” I asked. 

Jill looked a bit stung as she peered over her glasses, now halfway down her nose, at me. “Don’t look THAT surprised, Hobson. I can sew. Police uniforms don’t repair themselves, you know.”

“It’s just that…you’re so…” I paused. 

“Butch?” She completed my thought. “Even hardy tomboys like me have some domestic skills. Who do you think irons my shirts? Ha! You judgmental old breeder, you.” She honked and then gave my shoulder a playful shove. 

“Fair enough…Mea culpa, maxima mea culpa,” I play-bowed from my comfy chair. And we settled into an easy conversation woven of shop talk and crafting.


	9. Bergamot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Jill's past. Mr Bunnifield continues his cameo.

Laura and I passed a good half-hour or more chatting. She told me about Miss Katie, her early crafting mentor, showed me her latest project: a pair of intricately cabled socks for herself. Watching her deft, slim fingers twirl and skip the fine yarn seemed more alchemy than fiber art. She blushed when I told her so. 

Then it was my turn to turn red when Dr Hobson had to admit Mr Bunnifield’s ear looked as good as new when I snipped off the last line of thread and held him up for inspection.   
I’d been repairing Becca’s stuffed animals since she was a tot and the family Labrador-of-that-era had tried to snack on her Paddington Bear (never did find its little red hat). Her mum, Lulu, was far more capable being a silk as a Queen’s Counsel than working with fabric. And my brother Hal was absolutely useless, except to toss the broken creature de jour in the bin and hand his sobbing daughter gobs of money for a replacement. But, like Becca, I knew you don’t simply “replace” a best friend who’s always kept secrets, comforted a flu patient and been there for countless hugs. 

From a giraffe named Leo with a limp neck to an American Girl doll whose clothing looked like it’d been put through a shredder (thanks to a younger brother’s ire), I reattached limbs, created new outfits and generally serviced Becca’s collection of cuddlies. 

As I explained this to Laura, her eyes misted over. I furrowed my brow. “This makes you sad?” I asked, puzzled. 

She vigorously shook her head. “No, quite the opposite,” she said, wiping her eyes. “It makes me happy to know that solving murders isn’t your whole life and that you really are a very sweet woman underneath that somewhat stern exterior. The latter of which I sort of guessed at already.” 

I squinted a smile, acted annoyed. “Hmmph. Don’t let that get around. I’ve a reputation to uphold.” Then, with a wink, I grinned, kissed Mr Bunnifield on the forehead and tucked him back into my tote.

Then I pulled out a waistcoat I was making for a new stuffed bear, not for my niece but for a project I do anonymously. Although I sensed Laura could keep a secret (nearly as well as any teddy bear), I wasn’t quite ready to share this part of myself with her. No one associated with the criminal justice system knew of my little pet project, only Becca’s mum, who also happened to be my best friend. Lulu De Courcy Harriman and I had met at boarding school and become fast friends. A petite, sporty brunette, she had put up with being called a “dyke” and a “lezzie” for hanging around me and put her even-then rapier wit and debating skills to good use defending our friendship. For her troubles, I introduced her to Hal, tall and strapping and given to fiery left-wing political oration. (Lulu told him to put his money where his mouth was—he did and has ever since.) 

Fortunately, the waistcoat’s purpose never arose. Becca dashed over to show me her progress—quite impressive, according to Laura—and to say she and Chelsea were going to be another few minutes picking out some “real” yarn for a small beginner’s project. I glanced at my watch and noted that our tea time was in 15 minutes. Laura took that as her cue to take her leave and browse. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to go,” I lamented. I put down the waistcoat, needle and thread and stood too. I would have happily invited her to our tea if it wasn’t specifically an Auntie-and-Me birthday event for only Becca and me. I think she knew that. 

“I know you didn’t. But I did promise myself a leisurely browse before supper so…It was lovely to see you outside of work, Jill,” she said, hooking her bag over her shoulder. “Say, would you like to have dinner at mine next Friday? I was thinking we could try our hand at making steak sandwiches, if you’re game.” 

I grinned. “Bloody hell! Hanging out with you will land me on a slab from high cholesterol if I’m not careful, Hobson! Fair enough. I’ll bring dessert and some brews.” 

“Got to get new ‘patients’ anyway I can, Raymond,” she chuckled with a wink. We shared a quick friendly hug, and she headed off to lose herself amongst the bulky-weight skeins. 

Becca rejoined me a few minutes later with a bright orange-and-blue variegated yarn and a set of bamboo needles to make a scarf. As I paid for the yarn, I pulled Mr Bunnifield out of my tote and slipped him into her new cloth project bag. 

“You fixed him, Auntie J! I thought for certain Mr B was a goner this time,” she exclaimed and nearly bowled me over with a kiss and a hug. She has her mother’s dark hair but the Renfrew-Raymond height gene and was already within a few inches of my height. 

“Well, I know he’s a special chap,” I said, chuffed at her gratitude. 

Like both her parents, Becca didn’t miss a thing. “He is…and is Dr Hobson special to you?” Her smile wise beyond her years. 

“Dr Hobson is a friend—not that kind of a ‘friend’,” I told her, busying myself with putting my wallet away in my inside jacket pocket. 

“Uh-huh,” she replied, sly as a fox, nearly making me regret introducing Lulu to Hal. She scooted ahead so my playful squat to her bum hit only air.


	10. Cinnamon

Seeing Jill Raymond outside of the murder squad and mortuary was wonderful, I had to admit. In those official settings, she was all business, showing herself to be a keen observer of human nature who possessed a solid understanding of criminal law and someone who could get results with deceptively simple questions. I respected her professionalism. At the same time, she was compassionate and occasionally demonstrated a wry wit that I appreciated as it was similar to my own. 

Yet off-duty Jill, with her beloved loafers and Converse trainers, oversized jumpers and glasses atop her untamed mop of blonde hair…her unique laugh, love of Aimee Mann tunes (“I’m a Super Ball” sung with gusto and flapping arms) and crafty side—she completely charmed and continued to surprise me. 

Take, for example, our first Friday dinner at my place. She rang the bell (an actual bell I’d found at an army-navy shop years ago), four-pack of beer and fluted cake tin in hand. The beers were IPAs from a micro-brewery outside of Philadelphia; the tin contained a cake. 

“The recipe I found online called it a Philadelphia Apple Cake, so I thought since we were going with a Philly theme, why not give it a go?” she said. 

“You bake too?” I quirked a skeptical eyebrow as I took the pan from her with one hand and gave her a hug with the other. 

She rolled her eyes. “Oh come now, Hobson. Don’t be such a Doubting Thomas. You look stunned every time I display a modicum of domestic skills. Actually, I do bake. It tends to relax me whilst I’m working on a tough case. And the blokes at the squad seem to appreciate the results.” 

I put both hands palm-side facing her. “Ok, ok. I’m sorry for offending you, delicate flower that you are,” I teased her. “The cake smells delicious, by the way.” 

I gave her the 5-pence tour of my cottage, starting of course with Desmond who immediately introduced himself by depositing a collection of white hairs on her jeans legs. “Mer-ow,” he chirped at her. 

“Ah, you must be Desmond,” she said with a honk that caused the easily startled cat’s green eyes to widen and his gray tail to double in size. But he didn’t run off and was rewarded with chin scratches and belly rubs all evening. 

My home consisted of an open-floor plan living room, kitchen, dining area with second-floor master bedroom and en-suite and a loft that I used as an office. Jill took it all in, complimenting a needlepoint pillow of a ship, inquiring about photos from a childhood family holiday. Her sharp hazel eyes noted, I could tell, the lone bedside table. The “table” on the other side being a ladderback chair laden with forensic pathology journals and a few novels. Clearly, no one other than a certain Turkish Van was sharing my queen-size bed. (And I’d double-checked that my little battery-operated “friend” was safely tucked inside the table drawer.)

Back in the kitchen, I’d amassed the steak, onions, mushrooms and some rolls that were as close to “hoagie” rolls as one could get in Oxford. The steak had just come from 15 minutes in the freezer to make it easier to slice it super thin. Jill opened a bottle of ale for each of us, we toasted to the weekend and our dinner. She offered to slice the onions and was soon stood there with tears running down both cheeks. I handed her a wet towel for her eyes. 

“Really, onions don’t have feelings, Raymond. No need to sob over their demise,” I mock-chided her as I thin-sliced the beef. 

“You just can’t hear their tiny squeals of agony, you cold-hearted cow,” she retorted with a smirk before starting to chop the mushrooms. We both dissolved into giggles.   
I wasn’t used to sharing my rather compact kitchen with anyone. Yet, with Jill, this seemed so natural and easy. We quickly fell into a rhythm and have enjoyed cooking together ever since. 

Soon the aroma of caramelizing onions, melting provolone and sizzling steak practically had us drooling. Jill suggested slicing the rolls and popping them in the oven to crisp slightly, which she did, while I set the table. Within minutes, we sat down to sample our culinary creations. We took turns moaning with delight. (The look of ecstasy on her face, the near-orgasmic groans…for some reason, my brain insisted on filing them away for future reference.) Our sandwiches weren’t as authentic as the ones we’d enjoyed at Ippolitto’s but then neither of us used “Yo!” as a greeting. 

Jill’s cake rounded out the meal nicely. The top and bottom of the cake were crisp and caramelly with sugar-cinnamon walnuts and apple slices, the cake itself moist with just the right amount of sweetness. 

We discussed a recent case, Becca’s knitting progress, shared some tidbits of our childhoods. Both of my parents were GPs who ran the village practice together and Bea, my younger once-bratty sister now cherished friend, is a psychologist in private practice up in Yorkshire. I found Jill so easy to open up to and told her so. 

“No wonder your case closure rate is so high,” I complimented her with a lifting of my coffee mug. We’d settled in the living room for dessert and coffee. Jill had shucked her work shoes, as had I, and we both stretched out in a wingback chair, feet up on a common long ottoman. 

“Well,” she demurred with a shy smile. “It’s wonderful to get to know a new friend.” She ducked her head and took a sip of her coffee.

It turned out Mr Bunnifield had been hers but, as a grabby toddler, Becca had adopted him off a rocking chair in Jill’s bedroom. Jill has learned to sew out of necessity when Hal and Gerard, her other brother, had taken Bunnifield and a few other stuffed friends captive and left them worse for wear. 

“My Aunt Sally—Dad’s younger sister who lived with us after Mum died—came to my rescue and taught me to sew. Her friend, Mickey (short for Carmichael, her last name), taught me to bake. They were a couple of old tomboys too but they knew I had to learn some domestic skills. They tried to teach the boys but they only stabbed each other with pins and burnt things for sport,” she recalled with a bark. 

“Yes, they were—are—together, a couple,” she explained, seeing the question in my eyes. “My father never remarried and the three of them live together quite happily. Mickey had a stroke a few years back and uses one of those rolling walkers to get around but she’s hell on wheels, let me tell you!” 

“Did you always know they were a couple?” I asked. The only person I knew growing up who may have been gay was my mother’s older brother, Stephen. But he lived in Australia and we didn’t see him much. 

Jill put down her mug, tucked her right arm behind her head for support as she thought for a moment. “Yes. I mean, they didn’t use terms like ‘spouse’ or ‘wife’—still don’t. Not the done thing with that generation. But we all understood they were together, they slept in the same room, would tease each other as couples do…and the way they looked at each other,” her voice grew wistful with fond memories, “there was no mistaking their love for each other went far beyond platonic friendship.” 

“When did you realize you were gay too?” I asked and immediately thought “Oh, shit…well done, Hobson.”


	11. Cinnamon and Menthol

I glanced over to lock eyes with Laura. “Writing a book, are you, Dr H?” I chortled but then grew serious when I saw her look down, afraid she’d gone too far. 

I put my feet down and leaned over to her, placing a calming hand just above her knee. 

“Laura. Laura, it’s fine. You’re fine,” I reassured her. “You can ask me anything you like. I’m sorry if I upset you or made you think otherwise.” 

She blushed, smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Jill. I have a feeling I could use more coffee. What about you?” I smiled and followed her over to the kitchen. I stretched with a deep sigh that turned into a grunt of discomfort. Occasionally, my lower back gets stiff—old constable injury from chasing down a suspect over a tall fence. 

“Right, come over here and let me at least put something on your back while we wait for the coffee,” Laura said, sympathetically. She trotted upstairs to her en-suite and returned with a small tub of liniment. She motioned for me to turn around and face the kitchen island and lifted up my shirt in back. 

“Here?” she asked, placing a warm hand just below my bra line. 

“Erm, a bit lower,” I put my own hand in the center of my lower back, just above the waist of my jeans. Our fingers brushed, sending shocks along my spine and to my groin. Bloody hell, I thought. “Uhm, I can do it,” I said weakly. 

“No, don’t be silly. I’m the doctor here,” she chuckled and began massaging the warming agent into my sore back. “It’ll feel better in a few minutes.”

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to relax. Her touch felt so good that I bit back a moan of pleasure; it emerged from my mouth as a whimper. Wonderful. Fortunately, Laura thought it was a sound of pain and spent a few extra moments kneading my lower back. (She still teases me about getting turned on by a simple, platonic back rub.) She gently put my shirt back in place and turned me to face her. And came face to chest with my erect and aching nipples. 

I think we both blushed and suddenly looked elsewhere. She busied herself with pouring more milk and rinsed the mugs; I crossed my arms over my chest. 

“Thank you for the liniment and massage. Uh, you had asked me when I knew I was gay?” I said, trying to return our evening to normalcy. And I launched into my story, the short version: crushes on teachers, Bond “girls” rather than James Bond himself, feeling awkward around boys but shy around girls I thought were cute. And then kissing a female classmate after an all-night study session my first year and realizing how right it felt. 

“Being with a woman simply feels right to me in a way that being with a man—kissing, making love—never has,” I explained. We each sipped our coffees. 

Laura nodded. “Thank you for telling me. Intellectually, I understand what you mean. Do you believe someone can be attracted more to a person than a gender?”  
I thought for a moment. Where was she going with this? “Yes. I dunno how one defines it—pansexuality, perhaps? Though who am I to put a label on someone else’s self-description or definition? But yes, I do believe the Kinsey Scale has merit.” 

“Hypothetically, would you ever date a woman who didn’t identify as lesbian?” she asked. 

“Would you date a man who didn’t identify as straight?” I asked in return. 

She grinned. “I asked you first, Raymond.” 

“Fair enough. Yes. I would. I—” I paused. “There are factors more important to me. Whether she was committed to monogamy, for example. How she treated me. Your turn, Hobson!”

Laura smiled. “Yes, I would date a man who didn’t identify as straight. I have in fact. But I also would consider dating a woman because---” 

And then her mobile phone rang as did mine. We glanced at each other, shrugged, looked at our watches and each picked up our calls. 

“DI Raymond…” 

“Dr Hobson…” 

And so began a case that would upend our evening, several weeks and, ultimately, change our relationship.


	12. Earth and Rust

“To be continued,” Laura Hobson said softly, her demeanor changed to reflect the seriousness of our calls. 

“I’ll look forward to it,” I responded tightly, any quip I might have made suddenly seemed so wrong-footed. 

A student at Ashburn College was in critical condition at a local hospital following a knife attack on the college grounds. She wasn’t expected to survive the night, having lost a lot of blood, hence Laura had to visit the crime scene as well as wait at the hospital. I was going straight to the college. We hastily put on our shoes and each made for her own car, both of us in professional mode and dreading the next several hours. 

DS Quinn was off on holiday; his fill-in was DC Kit Marsh, a capable young woman who’d recently been promoted. Marsh was already on the scene when I arrived. She had been visiting friends who were professors at an adjacent college. I knew little about her. She had recently joined our squad. However, if Jean Innocent believed in her, that was good enough for me. Jean was an excellent judge of character and at mentoring younger detectives. 

Marsh filled me in as we walked from the front of the residence hall to a garden several weeks from being in bloom. The victim, now in a surgical theater, was identified as Lindsay Beaumont, a third-year law student. Brunette, of average height and build, more scholarly than athletic or party girl from what Marsh had already learned. 

“The victim was discovered at about 9:30 pm when an Ashburn security guard was making the rounds and saw her slumped over on the garden bench,” Marsh said. “I’ve already preliminarily interviewed him but told him we may need him to make a statement tomorrow.”

The garden, which a plaque indicated dated back to Elizabethan times, looked solemn in the moonlight, its buds hinting at warmer days to come. A weathered teak bench, almost frail-looking under the crime-scene lights, bore evidence of the heinous attack that seemed to have taken place on it. Blood, not yet congealed on this cool early-spring evening, had soaked into grooves in the bench where lovers etched their initials. 

Laura joined me with a nod and a taut smile. “I’d much prefer to be continuing an earlier conversation than discussing what appears to be a horrific attack,” she noted quietly. Marsh looked from Laura to me. 

“We were having dinner when we both got the call,” I explained. Cleared my throat and then asked Laura, “Anything you can tell me about the attacker, Dr Hobson?” 

Laura looked around, did a quick assessment. “Can’t tell gender, could be either. Can tell you that with grass, if she’d been concentrating on something—a book, music or something—she might not have heard the person approach. But there’s pea-stone gravel here, which does make a good crunching sound. So perhaps she was focused on something, wasn’t startled to see someone else in the garden or knew her attacker. As I understand from a brief chat with the ambulance crew, her stab wounds were in her upper back. And there were several.”

“Hmm. Thank you, Laura. Marsh: Can you start with the students in the rooms closest to the garden and begin making inquiries. Anyone hear or see anything? Thank you. I’m going to head to the hospital and—”

Laura’s phone had rung a few second ago. Now she’d rung off and touched my arm to get my attention. “Lindsay Beaumont died in surgery about 10 minutes ago. She never regained consciousness. I’ll schedule the PM for first thing in the morning,” she said quietly. We nodded our good-byes. 

I turned back to Marsh. “Have you attended any PMs since training? No? Ok, plan on being at the mortuary at 800 hours sharp. I’ll find out whether the victim’s family has been notified and if not, do the notification.” 

Marsh seemed to appreciate being invited to the post mortem. Some DIs insisted on going by themselves, as if attending was a privilege of rank. I rather think (as did my first DI, Martin Calder) that both officers should attend. Each person brings her own insight and questions to any aspect of an investigation. Further, as a female officer, I wanted to encourage other women as I’d been fortunate in that area myself. (Marty had some help in being a feminist, with a don as a wife and four whip-smart daughters.) 

“And one more thing, Marsh: how do you take your coffee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashburn College doesn't exist IRL; the name is a small dedication to my wife, whose surname at birth was Ashburn. The murder case is of my own imagination, though it has an element of truth that occurred to me after I began writing it. More on that later. 
> 
> Thanks to Terfle for the correction re: "cream" (aka milk) in coffee. In the States, "cream" means "Half & Half", half light cream, half whole milk.


	13. Lavender and Chamomile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura contemplates the term "friend".

After getting the call about Lindsay Beaumont’s death, there wasn’t much for me to do til the post mortem. I drove home in silence, only the sound of the trusty Volvo engine and my thoughts for company. I hated cases like this, when a young person died so senselessly. I hoped she didn’t suffer and gained some comfort in knowing that, based on what I knew of her wounds, her blood loss and shock would have rendered her unconscious within minutes. 

I liked knowing Jill was in charge of the case. She was clear-headed, observant, compassionate, intelligent…all the qualities you’d want in a detective inspector…or a friend…or more. 

C’mon, Hobson, I thought. Admit it: you’ve been eager to get your hands on her for weeks. You wanted to dive into that wingback at the yarn shop and snuggle with her. Hell, you even felt a tinge of envy for Mr Bunny-whatsis when she kissed his little furry forehead! My mind drifted back to our conversation earlier in the evening—oh, last night, I saw the clock now read 12:36 am. My fingers twitched on the steering wheel, remembering the silky smooth warmth of Jill’s lower back, the feel of the taut fascia and musculature, the sound of her small gasp when my hands first touched her.

The truth was, as I had begun to tell Jill, that my attraction for a person was less about gender or other social constructs and more about the person. How they were, who they were, their mind, their wit, their passions, their compassion…

And yes, Jill Raymond was indeed breathtakingly beautiful. One could not miss that, even after long days working a case when her hair’d been raked through and through by exasperated, exhausted fingers, her right eye lid drooped a bit more than the left, the lines bracketing her slim lips seemed deeper. (In fact, to me, these made her all the sexier. Middle-aged detective inspector kink? Must be a “thing”.) 

I pulled up my driveway, parked and went inside. We’d left dishes and mugs out. I put them all to soak in the sink, holding onto the mug that Jill had used. That her lips had touched, that I’d seen her tongue lick a stray drop of coffee from. I shook my head and added the mug to the soapy water. Listen to yourself, Hobson. Only a month ago, you were questioning whether she was inviting you on a date or just for a friendly dinner. Now…perhaps I’d been a bit defensive in my scrutiny. Had I really wanted it to be a date but couldn’t acknowledge it to myself? I thought of myself as a fairly open-minded person but…perhaps it was a touch of internalized homophobia. God knows, as a woman in what had typically been a “man’s job”, as an always-single middle-aged woman and one who dressed more for my own comfort rather than someone else’s idea of style, I’d heard the L word whispered about me. 

I thought back to that day at the shop when I had overheard Becca’s comment about “friend” in the shop that day. As they were leaving, I’d found myself walking toward the register to ask for a price check on a particular skein. I’d seen Jill’s smile in profile as she heard Becca’s knowing retort. (Quietly observant, just like her “Auntie J”.)  
And I recalled Jill’s reaction to my hands on her back. The whimper that I knew wasn’t from pain, the hardened nipples when she turned around. Was her body telling me what she wouldn’t (as she strove, perhaps for my sake, to keep our relationship firmly in the platonic realm)? 

Just then, my mobile alerted me to a text: 

“Thank you for dinner. My back thanks you too. Your usual java? J”

“You’re very welcome, as is your back. Yes, pls and ty. Sleep well. L x”

I groaned at the “x” I’d added. I tended to do that when texting friends. Was I---oh, go to bed, Laura. You’re turning mole hills into mountains. I scrubbed my hands over my face and trudged up the stairs, Desmond stealthily padding next to me.


	14. Java and Oak Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The post mortem. (Not very graphic.)

Kit Marsh and I arrived at the same time the next morning at Laura’s office. I handed her a cup. A smile warmed her light-brown face and reached her green eyes. 

“Thanks, Guv. You’ve made my morning,” she said, taking a sip. “Would you like me to fill you in now on the interviews I did earlier?” 

“You’re very welcome,” I said, sipping my own. “Caffeine is an essential vitamin for detectives. Yes, please start. I may have you break off when Dr Hobson begins—she usually mikes her PMs. However, by the way, if you have something pertinent to add to the record of the PM, by all means speak up. You are as much a vital part of this investigation as I am or Dr H is. I need your insight.” 

Kit had spoken with several students whose rooms faced the garden and all of whom were at home last night around the time of the attack. To a person, they said they hadn’t heard anything. A few described Lindsay as a quiet, studious young woman, on the shy side. Some noted she usually meditated in the garden in the evening, bundled against the night chill with a hoodie and sometimes a fleece blanket. 

“Did you reach the roommate?” 

Kit shook her head. “Apparently, she was out last night. Her mother co-owns a shop in town and she was there helping out and then stayed over at her mum and dad’s. I plan to go back today.” 

“I may join you. I also want to chat with their scout. They usually know a lot more than they say,” I said, winking conspiratorially at her as we approached the doors. 

“Don’t I know it, Guv,” she said with a rueful smile.

The smell of antiseptic and the faint hint of bleach reached my nostrils and made me cringe and I saw Kit react the same way. 

Entering the mortuary always makes me shudder a bit. The dead possess a stillness that can stop one in one’s tracks. A silent shout to “Notice me. Look at me. Learn from me. Help me.” I almost feel there should be a symbol of acknowledge to them, hand drawn in the air like crossing oneself. 

Laura greeted us warmly, especially when I handed her the coffee au lait she’d requested. That garnered me a quick smile and a wink of appreciation. 

However, I noticed there was a subtle shift in her energy when she was about to perform a post mortem. Her usually wry sense of humor and buoyancy tamped down several levels. Her work was almost sacred to her—she saw herself, she’d told me over coffees one recent night—as a facilitator of sorts, someone who could help the deceased tell the story that ended their life on this physical plane. An interpreter. A witness to the now-silent but no-less-important voice of the dead. 

Laura was already dressed in her turquoise scrubs and white Crocs. Now it was time for Kit and I to change into the maroon scrubs the facility kept for visiting observers. We stowed our clothing in the lockers provided, entered the post mortem room with the locker keys secured to our wrists on their stretchy cords. 

Laura’s PM assistant, a pleasant older man named Eddie Cross, nodded hello as he pulled back the white sheet and exposed the remains of Lindsay Beaumont. The victim’s shoulder-length brown hair was tucked under her head. Freckles dotted her forearms. She appeared relatively fit, if one can say that of a body. Dr Hobson began dictating, giving top-line details of the victim’s passing. She explained to us that given the stab wounds to the posterior of the body, she would start her observations there. 

She and Eddie turned the body with the back facing up so we could see the multiple knife wounds to the upper and mid back. Kit and I noticed something at the same moment.  
“Those scars behind the ears, both ears. They look recent. Any idea what they’re from,” I asked. Kit looked about to say something but deferred respectfully to the pathologist. 

Laura nodded. “Yes. I meant to tell you. Lindsay was legally deaf. She’d apparently lost her hearing in grammar school after contracting a virus. The scars are from cochlear implant surgery she had about a month ago,” she shook her head. “Her mother said she was due to get fitted with the external apparatus this week. Had really looked forward to it.” 

Poor soul, I thought. “So she couldn’t have heard her attacker approach, especially with a hoodie on?” 

“I doubt it. Especially if she were meditating, as other students said.” Laura glanced at the body’s fingers. “You can see here, discounting the obvious IV line incisions, that there are defensive wounds on her hands. But I would guess—guess, mind you—that the attack came too quickly and too violently for her to react in any meaningful way. She was probably seated at the time of the attack hence the angle of the wounds won’t help much with determining gender of the attacker….”

“Marsh, did you have something to add?” I asked to encourage her. 

“Several students mentioned that both the victim and her roommate, a Chelsea Carroll, were hearing impaired. Probably why the school had them room together. My sister is deaf; her school does the same,” she noted. 

“Chelsea Carroll?” Laura stopped her Y incision in its tracks. Marsh nodded her confirmation.

“Dr Hobson?” I asked. “Laura?” when she didn’t answer right away.

She shook her head in disbelief. “That’s Chelsea from the fiber shop, Jill. The young woman who gave Becca her first knitting lesson. Oh how awful for her,” Laura explained, her brow furrowed in sadness. “I didn’t make the connection last night but, yes, she’s at Ashburn. And she wears hearing aids—they’re so small these days you probably wouldn’t have noticed with her long hair—she lost some hearing years back. Mumps, I think her mother told me. Apparently, Chelsea received the vaccine but it wasn’t effective and she caught it, suffered partial hearing loss in both ears.” 

An hour later, Laura ruled the official cause of death as murder due to internal bleeding from the attack. She would have the final report to us by the next morning, she said. Kit left about halfway through when she got a call about another case she’d been working. As I was stripping off the scrubs to change back into work clothes in the locker room, Laura came in, walked to a locker two from mine and pulled off her scrub top. 

I turned to say something to her and found myself staring down into perky breasts in a silky royal blue bra, nipples stood proud, an arm’s reach away. 

“Time for another cup?” she asked lightly. Then, seeing where my gaze fell and realizing the double meaning of “cup”, she blushed. 

“Oh, hmm, uhm,” I managed, clearing my throat and averting my eyes. Brilliant, Raymond, I thought. When I looked at her again, I saw her eyes roam over my body, clad only in serviceable black cotton bra and boy shorts. Her look was hardly clinical in nature, lingering as it did on my small breasts, navel and then lower still. 

Realizing she’d been caught in the act, Laura quickly stammered, “Of-of coffee, my blend. A cup of coffee, I meant…obviously.” She suddenly peered into her locker as if the chambray shirt inside was the most interesting article of clothing she’d ever seen. 

What the…I wasn’t particularly shy but I hadn’t expected my straight friend and colleague to openly ogle me. She herself stood in only matching bra and underpants, having shucked the scrub bottoms too and tossed them in a bin. Before quickly pivoting my gaze back to her face, I had seen the outline of a full pubic bush pushing up against the front of her panties, a few wisps of light brown hair curling out alone the leg openings. Steady on, tiger, I mentally shook myself. 

I found my voice (and donned my shirt) first. “Yup, can’t stay long but,” and then my phone rang. Damn. 

“DI Raymond,” I said a bit harsher than I meant to as I scrunched my shoulder to cradle the phone and started to button up my shirt. Laura, now fully if hurriedly dressed, mimed that she’d be in her office. Kit was on the line. Apparently, Chelsea Carroll had returned her call and was ready to be interviewed in their rooms. 

Grabbing my coat from the locker, I strode to Laura’s office. She had a cup of coffee waiting for me, the aroma practically begging me to stay and chat. Laura picked up on my reticence to sit down. 

“Duty calls?” she asked, a hint of knowing disappointment in her voice. I nodded, offered a “Sorry” shrug, explained Kit’s phone call. 

“If it’s appropriate, please give Chelsea my condolences. I’m sure she’s deeply upset about Lindsay,” Laura said. Then, an idea flashed across her face. 

“Here,” she said, picking up her own travel mug (already cleaned from her morning commute) and transferring my coffee into it. “You can give it back to me at dinner Friday. I’ll text you later to make plans.” She handed it to me. The slim stainless-steel flask was as practical as its owner. I tipped it in acknowledgement and promised to take good care of it.  
Walking to my car, I pondered the little episode in the locker room. Surely the staff has its own changing area—showers too, given what they deal with day in and day out. But Laura Hobson chose to use the visitors’ room this morning. Why? And what was I to make of her outright staring at my nearly naked body? 

As I slotted into the driver’s seat, I smiled. “Ah,” I thought aloud. “Maybe the good doctor isn’t as far to the lower end of the Kinsey scale as I thought.” She’d been frazzled enough that she buttoned her shirt off-kilter. I quickly texted her: 

“Cheers for the java. Btw, you may want to check your shirt…buttons…J 😊” 

Three dots, then: 

“Oops. Ta for catching it. Leo would never let me live that down. LOL L x”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My experience with the deaf community is fairly limited but personal. In the past 2 years, my wife experienced unilateral sudden, permanent hearing loss and recently received a cochlear implant. If you have insight you'd like to share or if anything I write seems inaccurate/insulting/off, please let me know.


	15. Wool and Cedar

When I got Jill’s text, I quickly looked down and saw I’d skewed the buttoning up of my shirt. Well done, Laura, I thought with a sheepish grin. She looked at your shirt but…

I shook my head and sat down at my desk to begin working on the PM report on Lindsay Beaumont. Then I stopped. While it would not be appropriate for me to directly reach out to Chelsea, I felt ok texting her mum, Therese, who’d become a casual friend over the years. I offered indirect condolences and assured her that DI Raymond and DC Marsh were thoughtful, caring and true professionals who would work hard to seek justice. A short time later, she texted back, thanking me and noting Chelsea had greatly enjoyed working with Becca Renfrew-Raymond a few weeks ago. Her next text took me aback: 

“And, of course, we greatly appreciate her father’s help and support in expanding our business. They seem to be a lovely fam. x”

“Oh…” 

“Yes. Hal R-R put forth some seed funding for our website/online biz and offered really sound advice on ways to grow—tough market out there for retail fiber shops. Susan and I are very gr8fl to him…and Jill. I think she brought the idea to him. Got a customer, have to dash. Thanks again! T x” 

Putting down my phone and picking up my coffee for a sip, I thought about what Therese texted. Jill herself had mentioned sometimes helping her brother identify business opportunities. But she hadn’t shared anything about Therese and Susan’s shop. I had noticed business seemed better there during recent visits. New collections of independent dyers’ sock yarns as well as a host of new classes brought younger customers to the store. And I had been grateful to take advantage of a new local bike delivery service they offered. It meant I received a few skeins I needed to finish a project arrived free, quicker than via post and I found it gave the cyclist extra cash for college. 

There was more definitely to Detective Inspector Jill Raymond than a smartly dressed cop who loved coffee and was the patron saint of cuddly rabbits. My mind and libido needed little help flashing back to the locker room. I’d seen countless female cops re-dress over the years. But Jill Raymond, with her lanky toned legs, firm abs, cupped-handfuls of breasts and beauty marks that dotted the landscape of her body like lovely pins on a most exquisite topographical map…

“Boss…Ah, I see DI Raymond’s been and gone,” Leo Merton teased me smugly as he poked his head into my office. “Don’t you usually change in your shower room? Oh the look on your face.” If he wasn’t so bloody fantastic at his job—and so right, I’d have--

“I dunno what you mean,” I smirked back at him.

He accepted that he’d won this round with unexpected humility, put on a somber face and told me that Lindsay Beaumont’s parents had arrived to view her body (which had already been formally identified by an Ashburn dean). 

After assisting them as best I could, I returned to draft their daughter’s post mortem report. Leo had made the task easier, as he always did, with little kindnesses such as tissues, a fresh pot of tea and a new item: he offered the Beaumonts’ younger child, hanging back with his grandmother in the waiting area, a small stuffed teddy bear. Decked in a colorful waistcoat, white shirt and school-boy navy shorts, the bear quickly made a new friend in 6-year-old David Beaumont, who shyly held him close and whispered in his furry ears. 

“Bears keep secrets well. You can tell them anything and they’re always up for adventures,” Leo promised the boy as the family left.

“You were so good with him, Leo. Thank you. Where did that bear come from?” I inquired as he passed by my office a short time later. Leo, who resembled a dapper burly bear, grinned. 

“Adorable, wasn’t he? Would you believe DI Raymond brought it in, along with a few cousins?” He explained that several days ago, the inspector had dropped off a large box containing several bears. 

“Apparently, someone who wants to remain anonymous makes them and their little outfits. They’re meant for kids who have experienced a trauma. She said they usually go to local police stations but she knew we sometimes get children who have to tag along with parents or grandparents making IDs so she delivered some here. Probably some elderly shut-in or disabled person who likes to keep busy and be charitable,” he surmised. 

“She does have a couple of elderly aunts,” I mused aloud. “Thanks, Leo.” Trust Jill to find someone to do such a lovely thing, I thought, and it made my dreary afternoon a little brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love the smell of wool. Smells like home on a cozy night. Cedar and lavender are used to keep moths away from wool. And I recently found out that it's dirt in the wool not the wool itself that moths like to munch. The wool is collateral damage.  
> H/T to Terfle for the "patron saint of cuddlies" image. And thank you, readers, for your feedback and encouragement!


	16. Patchouli and Pekoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More talk of homicide than hugging in this chapter but it moves our story along.

The interview with Chelsea Carroll helped fill in some blanks for our investigation. We met Chelsea in the top-floor rooms she’d shared for two years with Lindsay Beaumont. Not surprisingly, the sitting room was made cozy by knitted lacy half-curtains, cabled pillows and a thick afghan that appeared to be constructed from re-purposed Aran sweaters. I complimented her on the décor. 

“Oh, thank you, Inspector,” she managed a smile. “I craft, Linds is, uhm, was a great cook so it was a trade-off. She said cooking helped her work through problems. It was how she meditated indoors, she’d say.” 

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “Did you know each other before Oxford?” 

“No, but we quickly bonded—both being hearing-impaired, studying law. My dad’s a QC and I’d love to follow him into chambers. Lindsay didn’t come from a law background—her dad’s a teacher, her mum’s an architect—but she really wanted to help defend deaf and hearing-impaired defendants. She was already volunteering with a local firm as a sign-language interpreter as needed. And she gave me the idea of offering knitting classes for deaf and hearing-impaired people,” her voice grew more enthusiastic as she focused on her craft. “It’s been lovely to see young deaf people gaining experience alongside seniors who are picking it up after a long time.” 

“Sounds like you are really making a difference for them,” Kit Marsh added before gently shifting the conversation back to the victim. “Did Lindsay meditate in the garden often?”   
Chelsea indicated that except in brutally cold or nasty weather, the victim did use the garden year-round to meditate nearly every evening. Like clockwork, she said, around 9:30 pm. Even during exam time. 

“She loved being out in nature. She planned to take off her external transmitter when she got it and simply sit in the silence and smells.” 

I sipped the builders tea she’d kindly offered us. “Why did she decide to get the implants?” 

Chelsea took a quick slurp of her own and thought for a moment. “For the longest time, she was against them—not for anyone else, mind, but for herself. She thought she’d gotten along well reading lips, texting and such. But she realized the ability to fully hear might help her be the best possible advocate for her future clients. She and her parents even met with a deaf QC who has the implants and that convinced her. She was excited about them but I think she still liked the familiarity of the silence too.” 

We asked the usual—did she have any disagreements with anyone recently, etc.—but Chelsea couldn’t recall any. 

“Did she have any other friends on campus who were deaf or hearing-impaired?” 

“Oh yes. Two in particular. Sometimes we all hung out together. Come to think of it, they also plan to study law. There’s Ellie Goldschmidt, who is profoundly deaf since birth, and Caroline Delby, who has cochlear implants. Here, I’ll write down their room number and phone numbers for you.” 

I gave the slip of paper to Marsh so she could arrange interviews. “Forgive my ignorance, Chelsea. Would you get implants?” 

She smiled. “I don’t qualify. My hearing loss is about 50 percent in my left ear, 40 percent in my right. Hearing aids do the trick for me. And they’re so small now…” she pulled back her shoulder-length blonde hair to show us. Indeed, at first glance, I couldn’t see them.

“Hence, I am hearing-impaired, not deaf. Sort of half a foot in each world, you might say,” she acknowledged as she finger-combed her hair back into place. 

“Does that make a difference to your friends who are deaf or to others, do you think?” 

She considered my question. “Not to my friends. But there is a distinction in other ways. For example, even though it’s a moot point because my parents are fortunate enough to afford my university and law studies…I wouldn’t qualify for the Stewart-MacKinnon scholarship because it can only be given to a student who is profoundly deaf. Lindsay, Ellie and Caroline do—did—qualify."

I nodded. Kit took copious notes and looked over to me with a knowing nod. We thanked Chelsea and walked to the thick wooden door. She asked us to please find whoever had killed her friend, and we both promised to do everything in our power to do so, sealing the promise with a handshake, though she pulled me into a quick hug. 

“Please bring Becca around again. She’s a quick study and we had such fun,” she said with a lively grin that contrasted with the tears in her eyes. I nodded and smiled to seal that promise.   
But it would be a while before I could keep the latter promise.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More investigating for our two detectives.

Ellie Goldschimdt was out of town for a few days, visiting an at-death’s-door grandmother in Yorkshire. Our next interview was with Caroline Delby at the Lonsdale College rooms she shared with Ellie. 

A tall, slim young woman with short dark red hair, Caroline studied Criminal Justice. Her implants, visible if one saw the side of her head behind and above her ears, had red “skins” (Marsh later explained) or covers to better blend in with her hair color. She told us that, like Ellie, who was her best friend, she had been profoundly deaf from childhood. In her case, bacterial meningitis caused permanent damage to her auditory nerve. Ellie, she noted, was born deaf. 

“Fortunately, in my case, the meningitis didn’t impact my cochlea, or these implants wouldn’t have been an option,” she explained, pouring us each glasses of cold water. Like Chelsea, Caroline spoke with the inflections and tonal changes that a typical hearing person would, probably because neither had been deaf since birth. 

“How long have you had the implants,” Kit asked as I stretched my legs and looked around. The sitting room seemed less colorful but no less cozy than Chelsea and Lindsay’s. Replica posters from World War II featured olive-green Army jeeps and ambulances, determined-looking nurses attending soldiers and one of the White Cliffs of Dover. A plump pillow in the shape of an English bulldog (in a Churchillian homburg no less!) nestled on the old leather two-seater next to a wildly Indian floral pillow. 

“Ellie loves the Second World War era. She swears she lost her hearing in that lifetime as a fighter pilot or submarine captain,” Caroline said with warm fondness. In that instant, I intuitively knew that, in this case, the term “roommates” meant romantic partner as well.

She continued. “I got the implants between middle school and high school. I was at an age where I wanted to fit in better. Though with Ellie, I sometimes go without and we communicate through sign language,” she demonstrated, writing the last sentence with her hands. Marsh relayed to me what Caroline had “said”. 

Caroline looked pleasantly surprised. “You sign!” she said aloud and with her hands and the two conversed for a few moments with swirls, swift hand movements and smiles (particularly one after they’d looked at me and Kit had nodded). Marsh would fill me in later. Yes, they were girlfriends, Ellie was out at approximately the time Lindsay was attacked. She usually walked or ran along the canal in the evening because she liked how the external silence matched her internal silence. Caroline herself was at a late study session with several classmates and she could provide us with their names, numbers. Yes, all four of them would often hang out together; Chelsea and Lindsay were straight but they were all close. Yes, the three of them were probably competing for the same Stewart-MacKinnon law scholarship, which awarded a deaf law student a sizable stipend to take a gap year after their LLB for travel, additional specialized studies or however they chose to spend it. She wasn’t sure whether she qualified, given the implants, and would have been happy to see Lindsay or Ellie win. 

We conversed a bit further and then took our leave. As we walked down the stone stairs worn at a sloppy angle by centuries of feet, I casually asked Marsh, “So…what did she ask when she looked at me and how did you answer?” 

Kit’s intelligent green eyes sussed the situation. “She asked whether you were gay. I told her you were, I was not, but was proud to work with you.” Smart woman, that Kit Marsh. I resolved to do whatever I could to further her career. 

“Was that all right?” she asked, a hint of doubt yet defiance in her tone. We stayed in step, walking onto the Lonsdale quad, the sunshine causing our eyes to squint. Students wearing their black commoners gowns over bright-hued hoodies and old-school Shetland sweaters chatted and walked in small groups. Graduate students in their longer gowns carried stacks of volumes or hurried along to their next classroom assignment. A few tweedy dons strolled by, deep in conversation. 

“Quite right and thank you,” I grinned. “And outstanding job taking over the questioning as you did. She clearly felt comfortable with you. Next coffee’s on me.” I pointed to the cafe on the other side of the college gateway. 

“Thank you, Guv,” she replied as we crossed the street. I paused on the sidewalk to light a cigarette, making sure I was downwind from her. I‘d been cutting way back again but somehow the start of a new murder case always meant more nicotine for my poor lungs. Then she asked, “So how long have you and Dr Hobson been a couple, if you don’t mind me asking?”


	18. Ylang Ylang and Sweet Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little heat added to the slow burn.

“Hi honey. I’ll be late again,” Jill Raymond responded into the phone. I could hear the traffic of an Oxford afternoon in the background behind her cheeky tone. 

“Hello?” I said, puzzled. Had I dialed the wrong number or did she think I was someone else? 

“Sorry, Laura. Was just having some fun with DC Marsh. Will explain later. What’s up?” she replied. 

I thanked her for dropping off the teddy bears and asked her to call me when she had a free moment to see about dinner plans for tomorrow evening. She promised to do so in about an hour and we rang off. 

We played phone tag—I had a PM to complete, she had to track down some professors about the Beaumont case—until that evening when each of us was home. 

“Hi darling, is that you finally in for the night?” I quipped before she could say a word and was rewarded with that familiar honk of laughter on the other end. 

“Ok, ok, I guess I had that coming to me,” she admitted good-naturedly, though I could hear the fatigue in the slight huskiness of her voice. She explained the conversation with Caroline Delby and Kit Marsh’s question afterward, just before my phone call. 

“And how did you answer her?” I pulled the knitted blanket up to my chest and fingered the fringe at one end. 

“Way to put me on the spot, Hobson!” she barked. “I said we were friends, good friends, I think, but not like Caroline and Ellie. I’m not sure she believed me—she gave me a side-eyed look—but let it go.” 

“Fair enough,” I said, though a twinge of disappointment crawled through me like seeing a floral boutique with someone else’s name on it. I switched over to the topic of dinner the next night. We decided to meet at 6 at a local Italian place known for its housemade pastas. It was BYOB and though I knew Jill didn’t drink much while on a case, I figured a glass might be a nice way to wind down. 

Desmond heard me say her name at one point in the conversation and stretched his long big-boned frame up to me. “Ma-ROW,” he stated, rubbing his chin against the phone in my left hand. 

“Right, someone clearly wants to say hello,” I told her and put her on speaker phone. 

“Hello, Desmond. How are you and your magnificent tail doing tonight? You keeping your mum in line?” she quizzed him. Desmond’s tail was a dark-gray stripy affair topped with a soft white tip. The furry snowball stared at my hand and tilted his head, probably wondering how his tall blonde friend managed to fit in the palm of my hand. She “conversed” with him for a few more sentences and then said, “Put your mummy back on the phone, love.” 

“Oh ‘love’ is it now? Should I get you two a room?” I teased her but in truth was tickled by the rapport she’d developed with my handsome boy. Few friends could understand why I had complicated my life by taking on someone else’s pet but Jill got it. 

“No, we’re both exhibitionists, as I’m sure you know,” she tossed back at me. We giggled like school girls. As if on cue, Des lay down on his back and showed me his ermine-like belly for a rubbing. My right hand drew languid circles on his bunny-soft fur. We talked shop; she explained what a help Kit Marsh was in learning about deafness and hearing impairment. But when she tried to stifle a yawn, I knew I shouldn’t keep her. Besides, hearing her voice, lower in tone as the conversation progressed, imagining her stretched out on a sofa, shirt untucked and perhaps hitched up a bit, shoes kicked off, was doing things to me. Things I didn’t expect. 

“I should let you go…Oh, and I nearly forgot, I have a pre-dawn exhumation to handle! I’d better get to bed too. Good night. Til tomorrow. Night, Jill,” I said. 

“Til tomorrow. Night, Laura,” her voice thickening as she gave in to her sleepiness. 

As I rinsed out my tea mug and climbed upstairs, I pictured her righting herself and slowly making her way to her bathroom, shirt, bra, trousers heaped on the floor like stepping stones. Then her lithe body, clan only in knickers, sliding under the covers. Too tired to do anything except sigh, looking adorable falling quickly into a deep sleep. 

Despite having to set my alarm for Stupid O’Clock for the exhumation, I was wide awake. And horny. I’d changed into old sweats earlier when I came home from work so I only needed to brush my teeth and hang the sweats on their bathroom hooks before I got into bed. My fingers, which had spent the day holding scalpels, phones and typing, were thrilled to reach out to touch the soft skin of my breasts as my mind envisioned them cupping and flirting with Jill Raymond’s breasts. Were her nipples small or large like mine? Were they light brown or pink? I couldn’t tell through her black bra. But I hoped they responded as mine did, shooting sparks of achy desire to my groin with every flicker and pinch.   
This wasn’t the first time I’d fantasized about a woman while masturbating. I mean, didn’t everyone have a crush on Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman back in the day or Helen Mirren (of any era)? But I had to admit, it was the first time I’d thought about a friend and/or a colleague in this way. 

Perhaps it was hearing her small grunt as she shifted on her sofa that evening, remembering the feel of her back against my hands. Maybe it was thinking about watching her fingers absentmindedly caress her coffee mug or stroke Desmond’s thick fur. My right hand drifted down past my belly button to feel between the apex of my legs. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this wet without a drop or two of lube. (Or more with a couple of the men I’d dated.) Jill and I were only friends and yet simply the thought of her body, her voice had turned me on more than anything or anyone had in my past. A surge of warmth centered in my groin made me gasp and forgo my inner monologue for the time being. There were more pressing issues to be dealt with. 

I’m not sure which made me hotter: the idea of Jill touching me or me her. Either scenario, and I imagined both, led me to reach for the drawer of my bedside table. I fished out the slim “personal massager” and put it to work in my right hand while my left continued to squeeze and rub my nipples. My hips bucked as I rubbed the device through my folds, plunged it inside me, held the vibrating top part against my swollen, pulsing clit. God, this felt so good. It’d been a long while, months at least, since I’d felt this aroused this quickly. This deeply. 

My breathing grew more ragged. Whimpers and moans seemed to linger in the still night air. What sounds did Jill make when she was aroused? I imagined some whimpers of need, gasps and groans when she wanted more. I grew wetter and closer to orgasm, fantasizing about her response to the touch of my fingers, my tongue. 

Was Jill Raymond fucking me or was I fucking her? Was that her tongue on my breasts or mine on hers? Did it matter? Was it both…oh, I’m…and with a guttural groan, I came. Hard. The kind of climax that leaves you only enough energy to release the toy, stuff it under the covers for a thorough cleaning in the morning, roll over and fall asleep in an instant.


	19. Caramel

I woke with the 4 am alarm, groaning at the early hour but smiling at the memory of the evening before. I shook my head as I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. Laura, you old dog. Guess you can learn new tricks. Just the thought of Jill’s body was enough to send tendrils of arousal through my body. Was I falling for my friend? Was this a phase brought on by a long drought in my sex life? You see an undeniably attractive woman and fantasize about her? 

But as I readied myself, throwing on a long-sleeved t-shirt, thick Aran sweater and respectable jeans, my thoughts became more solemn and contemplative. I was on my way to an exhumation, one of the hardest assignments for forensic pathologists to face for several reasons: you’re figuratively and often literally opening old wounds for families, loved ones, often whole communities. Yes, it’s done in the cause of justice. But it is a gut-wrenching, exactly process that sometimes does not hold the answers that police, prosecutors or families seek. 

I knew I needed to put aside my thoughts about Jill and my own sexuality for the time being. At least I had dinner with Jill to look forward to at the end of the day. 

Several hours later, the post mortem on the exhumed body of a middle-aged man completed and another post mortem on an unattended death done, I was in my office, swamped with follow-up paperwork. I’d grabbed a quick shower earlier but still imagined I could smell eau de graveyard clinging to my hair, which was in need of a trim. Ugh. 

Suddenly, an arm in a long-sleeved maroon sweater holding a steaming hot, medium-sized paper cup appeared in my open doorway. Silence. 

“If that is for me, you could be the Grim Reaper himself and you’d still be welcome, so come on in,” I quipped. 

“My, you’re easy,” Jill Raymond said, smirking, as she handed over the cup. 

Her flirty comment didn’t even register as I grabbed the cup like the caffeine addict I am and took a careful sip. A caramel café au lait from the tiny café around the corner. Not many people knew I drank those, my secret (apparently no longer) afternoon pick-me-up on particularly long days.

“Thank you very much, Jill. How did you know?” I took a few more sips, moaning as the aromas swirled around my happy nostrils and the small jolt of sugar and coffee jump-started my depleted energy level. Jill smiled with her whole face: her lips stretched wide, her elegant cheekbones rose, her eyes squinted nearly closed in that happy puppy expression. 

She put a long index finger to her aquiline nose and winked. “I have my sources, Doctor. And I happened to be here on another case with Dr Gregson so I figured I’d stop by.” She wore a cashmere v-neck sweater over a white button-down shirt, tails left casually untucked, and her slim trousers. Her black-rimmed reading glasses were hooked by one arm into the v of the sweater. She carried a cup of her own and a well-loved leather briefcase. 

“Well, I can see you’re swamped,” she said politely. “We still on for dinner?” 

“Mmm,” I said, as she’d caught me mid-sip. I swallowed. “Yes. I have to go home, get a proper shower and change, but I’m looking forward to it. And thanks again. I owe you one.”


	20. Fig and Oregano

“Oh my, Hobson, you clean up well,” I greeted Laura as we met outside the restaurant later that evening. She wore a black silk turtleneck and colorful chunky scarf with faded denim jeans. A leather bomber jacket completed her casually elegant look. She pulled me into a brief hug and, to my surprise, leaned up to kiss my cheek. I detected a light hint of cologne, a hint of amber and citrus. 

“That’s for the café au lait,” she explained with a cheeky grin. Then, another kiss. “And that’s for the back-handed compliment.” 

Her forwardness took me aback. What was the kissing about? My puzzlement must have appeared to her as a symptom of hunger. She reached out for the door and opened it for me. “After you. You’re clearly in need of nourishment.” 

We settled at a table for two, decided on flatbreads--one with roasted grapes and ricotta, the other with salami and fig jam--as starters. Laura had brought a cabernet sauvignon, for which our waiter procured an ice bucket and de-corked for us. I demurred; my stomach was empty, and I knew I was better off sticking to Pellegrino until at least several bites of the flatbread. But I motioned for Laura to have a glass. 

“Don’t go by me. Enjoy it. It’s your night off after a very long week,” I said. “Did everything go ok this morning?” 

She took a sip, rolled it around in her mouth and slowly swallowed, savoring the complex flavors. “Mmm, yes, as well as could be expected. It’ll come down to the toxicology report, but I’ve a got a hunch that the widow will be sorry she nixed cremation. How was the rest of your week? Any progress on the Beaumont case, if you can say?” 

We discussed the case and a few others. She asked about Becca, who was knitting away, making simple but sturdy scarves for multiple members of her cuddly brigade. She started to ask me about the teddy bears but then our appetizers arrived, and our mouths were soon occupied with delicious food. We were both famished. We shared the plates, our fingers touching occasionally as we reached for the same slice of bread or sliver of salami. When that happened, Laura seemed to start as if mildly shocked. 

“You alright?” I asked, concerned. 

“Never better,” she said smiling. “Oh, and Desmond sends his warm regards. He seemed a tad put out that he couldn’t come along.”   
I spotted a long, white strand of fur on the sleeve of her turtleneck, plucked it off and held it out for her. “Oh, he seems to have found a way,” I replied. We laughed. The waiter returned to take our dinner orders. We’d decided to share gnocchi Bolognese and toasted walnut-and-wild-mushroom ravioli in a browned butter sauce. My fingers fidgeted sans cigarette, which she caught. 

“Oh, go get your fix, Inspector. I’ll wait,” she teased me, shooing me toward the entrance with a backhanded paddling motion. I hoped I didn’t smell like smoke upon my return, but if I did, she didn’t comment. Instead: “Now about those bears…” 

“Ah, yes,” I said. “One story about them actually originates in your old stomping ground, Philadelphia,” I explained. The lead prosecuting attorney, known as the district attorney there, got an idea to have local crafters make dolls that could be given out to children who had to testify, had suffered a trauma, etc. Our local benefactor, who wished to remain anonymous, read about the dolls and put his/her own spin on the idea with the bears. Each would be dressed in waistcoat or jumper and trousers or shorts. 

“Are there boy and girl bears?” Laura asked, munching on a chunk of syrupy grape. 

“Yes and no,” I said. “the idea is that the bear could be either, or neither, um, whatever the recipient imagines.” Laura cocked her head. Maybe I wasn’t explaining this well. 

“Let’s say you were a child and I handed you this bear,” here I placed an unused cloth napkin into her hands. “Tell me, is it a boy or girl?” 

Laura took the napkin and held it in front of her as if studying a stuffed bear. “Hmm, well, tonight, it’s a female bear named Jillian—but she goes by JR—who’s a bit of a tomboy.” She winked at me. “But she could also go by JR and be a boy bear. Or, I suppose, be a non-binary bear. It’s really about having a friend to play with, confide in, cuddle, isn’t it? Kids don’t really concern themselves with social constructs per se…Ah, I see.” 

I grinned at her. “Brava! Yes. Hence, the unique outfit for each bear but nothing to say ‘boy’, ‘girl’, et al. On a more serious note, this is important because we don’t know whether the recipient has experienced abuse and might not want a bear with a specific gender.” 

Just then, before Laura could drill deeper into the bears’ back story, our dinners arrived. Then the subject shifted to sampling each dish, picking up the hints of herbs in each, what mushrooms were used in the ravioli and cooking. We determined we’d need another night soon for cooking. Maybe tacos or something fun to put together. Or perhaps a Saturday afternoon with Becca at the fiber arts shop again. 

But before we could fully enjoy our meals, my phone vibrated. I answered as quietly as I could. It was Chief Superintendent Innocent. Another deaf student had been attacked. This time, Ellie Goldschimdt. She was on her way to the hospital’s emergency department. She had been stabbed but had fought off her attacker. I rang off, looked over at Laura, whose fallen expression matched mine. 

“Another attack. I have to go,” I nodded for the waiter to get the check. “No, no, Laura. It’s on me. It’s the least I can do, having to dash off like this.” I looked at the check, pulled the right amount of cash from my wallet and tucked it back into my jacket’s inside pocket. 

“I’m coming too,” she said, starting to gather her jacket and bag. She paused to finished off the wine in her glass. I sighed. While not drunk, certainly, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for Laura to be present while I interviewed the victim. I didn’t want to risk anything adversely impacting the case. Further, I knew it had been a long day for her. 

“Laura, tell you what. You cabbed it here, right? (A nod.) Let’s get you one for home. I have no idea how long I’ll be but if it’s early enough, say, before 10 when I’m done, I’ll drop by your place for a coffee, ok?” 

She pouted for a second but understood. She asked the waiter to kindly bag up our meals so she could bring them home. “You’re right, of course, Jill. I’m better off not being there after a couple glasses of wine.” After a quick hug and a call to Uber for her, I departed, our lovely dinner—or what I’d a chance to eat—turning sour in my stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Jill tells about the Philadelphia, Pennsylvania District Attorney and the dolls is true. I'm glad for an opportunity to acknowledge that thoughtful gesture here.


	21. Mint and Mist

Kit Marsh met me at the ED nurses’ station. Like me, she’d been out for dinner with friends, and her tailored all-business work look had been ditched in favor of stylish, colorful attire. “A copper’s life,” she said with a mix of pride and acceptance. “Do we know how she is?” 

“Not yet,” I replied, rubbing my stomach absentmindedly. I didn’t think the Bolognese was settling in well. “But apparently her injuries aren’t considered life-threatening so that is good.” 

Kit reached into her knapsack, pulled out a roll of antacid tablets and empathetically offered me the pack. I accepted one with a graceful nod and handed it back. She then unrolled another to chew on. “Yeah, you looked like you could use one, Guv. My paella isn’t sitting well either.” 

“You know, you can call me Jill, if you like,” I told her gently. 

“I know, Guv,” she smiled a bit shyly. “I appreciate that. But I feel I need to earn that privilege.” Just then, the doctor in charge of Ellie Goldschmidt’s case came over to us as a young female SOCO nodded to us and exited the ED. 

“You can see her now. We’ve sutured her and the crime team has done their detailing, as it were. She may be a little woozy from the pain meds but she’s strong and has her wits about her,” he said. We thanked him and walked back to the curtained off area at the far end of the partitions. Fortunately, it’d had been a slow night thus far and we had several partitions between us and the next admission, an elderly man who appeared to be dozing. 

Ellie Goldschmidt was sat up on the gurney, alert but clearly not at her best. She had lacerations to her right forehead and right arm where apparently she’d spun round and blocked the attacker from doing more. Kit took the lead, signing for both of us. Ellie had only returned from up North late that afternoon, it seemed. We weren’t scheduled to formally interview her til the following afternoon. 

Shorter and more muscularly built than her girlfriend, Ellie had chestnut brown hair, Buddy Holly glasses and blue eyes that still were piercing even dulled by medication and exhaustion. She managed a grim smile and a handshake and nodded her consent to be interviewed. 

She stunned us both—not only by starting first but also with her description of her attacker. 

“ ‘It was a woman. And I think I broke or at least injured her hand or wrist in fending her off,’” Kit translated aloud for me. “Maybe 5’5”, average build, I got the sense she was not a student. Not that young. She had on a hoodie, ski mask and gloves so I couldn’t see distinguishing features. But I would remember her perfume if I smelled it again.” 

Kit and I exchanged looks. Blimey. “This is excellent, Ms Goldschmidt—(“Ellie”, she signed)—Ellie. Can you walk us through how, when and exactly where it happened,” I asked. 

Ellie described how she always took an evening walk along the canal to clear her head. Like her friend Lindsay in the garden, Ellie had that evening ritual and was happy to have made it back to Oxford in time for it. Her gran’s condition had stabilized so her parents urged her to return to Ashburn and her studies. She always wore a favorite hoodie on her walk but, like many deaf people, she said, she had developed “eyes in the back of my head, as Caroline puts it,” she grinned. She had a heightened sense of smell, excellent peripheral vision, and had suddenly spotted a shadow behind her on the canal water. As she turned, her attacker was caught a bit off guard and lashed out with a knife. The knife thrusts nicked Ellie’s forehead and right forearm before Ellie’s left hand grabbed the attacker’s wrist and shook it hard. The motion caused the woman to drop the knife and run. 

Ellie picked up the knife and ran toward a home with the lights on. 

“I’m sure I looked a right sight, bleeding, carrying a knife and unable to speak,” she signed, shaking her head with a rueful smile. “But the homeowners, bless them, recognized me from my summer walks and let me in, called the police and ambulance for me.” 

Just then, Caroline Delby yanked back the partition curtain and gasped. She ran to Ellie and began signing and talking aloud, asking how she was, assuring Ellie that she loved her. Caroline winced and put a gentle hand on Ellie’s head when she saw the stitched-up wound, tears slipping from her eyes. 

Kit looked at me; yup, we had what we needed for the night. “Well, thank you both for your time. We’ll be posting officers outside your rooms and have extra security on the Ashburn campus starting tonight. Please stay close by and we’ll check with you tomorrow about a more in-depth interview, Ellie. We’ll leave you ladies in peace now,” I said, giving them a half-wink and a kind smile. 

I told Kit to take the morning off and touch base with me after noon tomorrow so we could determine when to interview Ellie more comprehensively. As we left, I glanced at my watch: 10:08. I’d said I would drop by Laura’s if it was before 10, but figured she’d still be up and wondering. I drove to her cottage, the Jetta seeming to find its way there nearly on auto-pilot by now. 

As the tires crunched over the gravel drive, my body relaxed and I sighed, seeing the warm light from the living room and the aromatic smoke curling up from the chimney. Though the spring evening wasn’t cold, a damp mist made one wish for a thick jumper or blanket so I walked quickly to the front door and rang the quaint ship’s bell. 

She answered immediately with a smile welcoming me as if home from a battle.


	22. Chapter 22

“Hello, you,” I greeted Jill and pulled her inside, taking her coat as she toed off her loafers.

“Hey. I figured it was close enough to 10. Was that alright?” she asked, her forehead furrowing in polite concern. 

“Absolutely,” I replied, handing her a warmed towel for her hair. She sighed and smiled when her hands felt the heat, and she roughly rubbed her blonde locks for a few seconds and handed it back. “Shall I put the kettle on? Right, well, go sit in front of the fire and get warm through and through. Des, look who’s come to visit!” 

Taking the stairs in leaps, the heavy-footed Turkish Van dashed up to his friend and swiped her dark jeans with his thick white coat. He gazed up at Jill and rubbed her outstretched hand with his mouth. 

“Ah, there you are, Desmond!” Jill acknowledged him, honking as she watched his eager antics. By now, even the skittish Des was used to that braying-honk and didn’t move an inch. They continued their love fest while I prepared the tea pot and laid out some chocolate biscuits I knew Jill liked.

“Is Ellie Goldschmidt ok?” I asked, carrying the tea tray into the living room. Jill had stretched out on the sofa, wiggling her socked toes at Desmond, who playfully seemed determined to sink his fangs into one if it would only stop moving. “Careful, he does bite,” I cautioned her. She gave me a who-me-worry grin and picked up a mug, sighing again as she warmed her hands with it. 

After a cautious sip, she answered, explaining what she and Kit Marsh had encountered at the hospital. She doubted there would be any DNA evidence from the scene or from Ellie’s body because the assailant had worn gloves and a mask. 

“Caroline Delby arrived and we left a short time later after I arranged for extra security for them both,” she said, then paused, suddenly deep in thought. “My gut tells me…” she shook her head. 

“Go on, cops are allowed their instincts. It’s ‘scientists’ like me that can’t speculate,” I urged her on. 

“Well, my gut tells me that Caroline isn’t in danger. I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe because the assailant is now injured. But I think there’s more to—Ow! Oi, cat!” Desmond’s fangs had found purchase into Jill’s right big toe. As soon as he realized victory was his, literally in his mouth, he released his grip on the hapless foot and shot out of the room like a white cannonball. 

Jill put down her mug and massaged her foot. “Here, let me see,” and I pulled off her sock quickly before she could protest. Sure enough, the riled-up bugger had broken the skin. A trickle of blood was running down her toe. I sprang into action and trotted over to the kitchen where I kept a full first-aid kit. 

“Well, we can’t have you conducting an investigation from a hospital bed if you develop Cat-Scratch Fever. Yes, Doubting Thomas Raymond. It does exist.” I returned and pulled up a chair to that end of the sofa.

“Hmmph,” the injured party grumbled. But she held still while I grabbed her big toe and squeezed, trying to get as much blood out of it as I could before flushing the wound. Jill grunted. “Bloody hell, Laura!” 

“Hey, number one: I warned you he bites,” I retorted, pouring hydrogen peroxide onto a cloth and rubbed it into the wound. Jill hissed at me. “Two, you insisted on winding him up.” I kept my tone light. 

“You’re lucky, too. He only got you with one fang, the other must have struck your toenail.” I examined her foot. A couple of scratch marks needed tending too, where his front claws had grabbed her foot. She wore no polish on her toenails, which were neatly trimmed; clearly Jill took good care of her feet. I could feel the typical dense-skinned areas around the heel and the ball of the big toe, but the skin was kept smooth with a minty cream, the scent of which I could still detect after a long day. Unbidden, an image of the toes curling in ecstasy popped into my mind. Oh Lord, I thought. 

I must have lingered too long in my observations. “Foot fetish, Hobson?” Jill had recovered her good humor. Her eyes sparkled and her mouth wore a delighted smirk. 

My face turned red. Caught in the act. “Uh, I-I…” I stammered, busied myself applying a dab of antibiotic ointment to the bite mark and a bandage.

Jill reached out and put a hand on my forearm. “Laura. Relax. I’m sorry. I was only teasing. Thank you for tending it.” 

I regained my equilibrium. “Now next time…” 

Jill raised her hands, palms toward me. “I know. I get it. No wiggling toes at the cat!” 

“Quite right. Gold-star pupil, you,” I said, giving her a saucy smile. I gathered the supplies, returned them to the kitchen, washed my hands and came back to the living room.   
Jill had scooched down the sofa into a more reclining position, pulling the blanket over her. She examined it. “Did you make this, Laura? It’s really lovely.” 

I explained that it was a blanket I’d cobbled together from old sweaters salvaged from thrift shops and handknit ones I’d made but grown tired of. It was a concept learned from Therese Carroll, I noted, and now part of a course she and Chelsea offered. 

“So their shop was one of the ones you recommended to Hal for investment?” I asked, seeking confirmation from what I guessed after my conversation with Therese. 

She seemed surprised. “Yes, that’s true. A community is made stronger, its values reinforced when independent shops like theirs can beat the odds and stay in business—thrive even. From time to time, I do come across such businesses and share my thoughts with Hal.” 

I told her I agreed wholeheartedly and had been thrilled to see the shop growing and its staff and customers happy. I asked about other Oxford area businesses she may have helped. She blushed. With a little prodding, noting I’d like to support them, she fessed up to a car repair shop that helped convicted felons get back on their feet and another that trained working-class kids, a bakery that hired and trained women in addiction recovery and even a mortuary-crematorium that had specially trained grief therapy dogs. 

“You’re a local hero!” I exclaimed but Jill brushed aside my compliment. “No, truly. I won’t tell anyone, if that’s got you worried. But really, Jill Raymond, you’re a good soul.” I wanted to lean over and kiss her but after the fetish comment thought better of it. 

“What good are connections if they’re not put to good use?” she asked, reaching for a biscuit to dunk in her tea. She left it in the tea a few moments too long and it barely made it to her mouth before crumbling. Her tongue, sweeping out to capture a wayward drop of tea, made a shot of warmth slip through my body like hot caramel down a sundae glass. 

We chatted a bit more about area shops we liked. At one point, I was relating a story about the thrift shop I most often frequent and looked over to see she had drifted off to sleep. Her head tilted to one side, blonde hair lifting off her face with every exhale. Her left hand curled into the blanket while the right was half-tucked under her chin. She looked like a beautiful angel at rest. The long week had finally done in Detective Inspector Jill Raymond. 

After watching her for a few minutes, seeing her wide mouth quirk and mumble in response to some dream, I could only smile and pull another knitted blanket over her. I jotted down a note, should she wake up, saying she should stay as long as she liked or leave when she wanted and that I’d set the alarm for 8 am. 

And not for the first time, did I wish I could simply guide her upstairs and tuck her in next to me. I could not remember anyone having the effect on me that Jill Raymond did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bakery that employed women in early recovery did exist for more than a decade in my county. And the funeral home with therapy dogs continues to thrive and is run by a wonderfully compassionate friend of mine. Please support local businesses whenever you can! :-)


	23. Vanilla and Oak Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jill sleeps over. The investigation continues. Things may get complicated...

I woke to the tantalizing aroma of coffee brewing and some form of dough baking. And a faceful of plush white fur. Desmond. I opened one eye and he took advantage of it, deciding to greet me by running his rough spikey tongue over my cheek. A squawking noise came out of my mouth…followed quickly by loud snorts and giggles at the kitchen island. 

“’Morning, sleepyhead. How do you like your new alarm clock?” asked a wide-awake and almost annoyingly cheerful Laura Hobson. 

“Can I trade it back in for the rooster down the lane?” I asked, rubbing my hands over my face, which now smelt vaguely of tuna. Yuck. Desmond looked offended and jumped down to tangle himself around Laura’s pyjama bottomed legs. 

“It’s ok, darling boy. Auntie Jill isn’t really angry with you. She’s obviously just not a morning person like you and I,” Laura told him as she walked over to me, steaming coffee mug in hand. 

I creaked upright to a sitting position, grunting a bit. It had been a while since I’d slept on a sofa and my 46-year-old body made sure I knew it didn’t approve. I ran my fingers through my hair, which seemed to be flattened in some places, sticking up in others. My shirt looked like I’d slept rough for a week and it felt like my bra had half-twisted off my breasts. 

Damn, what a sight I must be. On the other hand, Laura Hobson looked Saturday-morning-adorable in her flannel pj bottoms, soft old t-shirt and a huge men’s blue button-down shirt worn open as a robe. 

My manners returned. “I am SO sorry, Laura. I must have drifted off last night. Didn’t mean to impose on you.”

“Not at all,” she replied, sinking into a nearby wingback chair. She sipped coffee from her own mug. “You looked so peaceful and I knew it had been such a long week that I couldn’t bear to wake you. So I left you a note and tucked you in. I hope that was ok.” 

“Absolutely! Thank you. God, this coffee is tip top,” I savored the warmth and richness of the brew for a moment and then happened to look down at my feet. I’d fallen asleep with one sock on and one off, the latter bearing a bandage with Eeyore on it. Bloody hell…

“Oh, sorry, I bought the Winnie-the-Pooh plasters last year when an old med school friend was visiting. We used to all have Pooh-related nicknames,” Laura explained with a sheepish smile when she saw me eyeing the colorful, if downcast, bandage. 

I had to know. “And you were…” 

“Little ‘Roo,” the 5’2” Laura noted drolly. “For what it’s worth, I do think you’re more of a Christopher Robin than an Eeyore, but that’s the one my hand found first last night.” 

I couldn’t hold the mock-serious face any longer and burst out laughing. Laura joined in and we were soon holding our sides. Every time I tried to stop, she would look at my big toe dressed up like a chronically depressed, pinned-on-tail donkey and lose it again. And then I would too. Finally, we got our wits about us as the kitchen timer dinged. Laura got up and pulled a tray of black current scones from the oven. After a quick trip to the bathroom upstairs, I returned with finger-combed hair and a mouth semi-cleaned with mouth wash so I felt somewhat presentable. And I’d located my other sock and pulled it on over Eeyore. 

We nibbled scones and drank coffee in comfortable silence for several minutes. I didn’t know how the rest of my day would shape up, given the new turn the Beaumont case had taken last night, so I couldn’t make plans for later today. But I did want to re-pay Laura’s kindness and finally have her over to my place. 

I explained this and noted, “Why don’t you come over to mine tomorrow for dinner? I can order in from a fantastic Greek place. I don’t have a Desmond but might be able to locate a dust bunny for you to cuddle with.” 

She laughed, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “I’ll look forward to it.” 

As I drove back to my place through slower-paced weekend traffic, I felt better than I should have, given my evening on a sofa. I realized I felt glad to have found a friend such as Laura Hobson. 

With my long hours and natural reserve, I didn’t make friends easily. I kept those I did make forever. But my innate shyness coupled with a self-taught reticence acquired in childhood meant I’d never had the tons-of-gal-pals parties nor the curled-up-by-the-fire heart-to-hearts that it seemed (or social media showed) so many women had. Moreover, my most recent relationship had done a lot of damage to any progress I’d made in terms of opening up to a woman. Becoming friends with Laura, who was candid, comfortable in her own skin, without an agenda and who showed no warning signs of drinking to excess, had been a wonderful experience thus far. 

And I figured it was about time to open up to Laura about the bears. The story about the prosecutor in the States was true. But the origins of these English bears went far deeper. Soul deep.

My home was my haven, my cozy Harry-Potter cupboard, as it were, from the outside world. Pulling down the driveway, shared with the main house, I always took a deep, cleansing breath and felt my shoulders ease down from my ears. Putting the key in the lock, I could just barely make out the hint of the sweet balsam fir incense Hal had brought back from a recent trip to the States. I kept the slender tube of sticks by the door and lit one, planting its end in a worn-down candle. Ah…

My cottage was a former carriage house to a Victorian manse—the main house—once the home of countless Church of England vicars and their families. The church and its graveyard occupied a sizable, semi-woodsy acreage next door. When I purchased the entire property (manse and carriage house) a few years before, I fell in love with the privacy of carriage house; it was tucked about half an acre away from the three-story stone house, surrounded by trees and a small garden that had grown in the century after it had last been used as a coach/horse barn. I renovated the main house and rented it out to an Oxford don through an agency so I could keep my anonymity while making sure the tenant was well cared for. I then had the carriage house (which I thought of as “Matilda”) gutted and re-done as a single-story, high-ceilinged cottage. 

Radiant heat cement floors, new windows (inserted closer to the ceiling than the floor), a skylight over the living room/kitchen area and a French door that overlooked the back garden/deck gave me an oasis in which to unwind and reset at the end of long work days. I hung my keys on the old tool rack I’d found when we pulled apart the house, slid out of my shoes (careful of the still-tender, Eeyore-clad toe) and headed toward the bathroom. I hung my coat on a peg and put the rest of my clothing in the hamper to be washed. As someone who loves her creature comforts, I’d expanded the carriage house to include a good-sized en suite that could comfortably house a soaking tub, walk-in shower and washer/dryer combo. Turning on the heated towel pair, I walked into the shower and sighed deeply as the hot water sprayed my weariness down the drain. I washed my hair then lathered up with my favorite soap, a silky goat’s milk bar from the States (courtesy of Hal and Lulu from an earlier States-side visit). 

I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw Eeyore getting a sudsy bath; Laura’s sense of whimsy and clever mischief was delightful. A welcome change to the balls-out macho style of the squad room, which I enjoyed at times right enough. 

My clit sparked to life at the thought of Laura Hobson, an image of her in that t-shirt this morning had come unbidden into my mind, her nipples erect under the soft cotton looked the size of small raspberries. If I were honest with myself, Laura was my type: intellectually curious, beautiful in a down-to-earth, no-fuss way, witty, kind. From our locker room encounter, I knew she had a nice figure (ok, more than nice, if understated). 

Ah, Raymond. Good to know you still have a pulse. Although lusting after a straight friend is not necessarily your best move, given your last relationship. I chastised myself by almost violently flicking the tap to cold, inhaling sharply at my frigid self-punishment. Best not to even go down that road. You finally made a friend. Keep it in that neutral lane, for God’s sake. I turned off the tap, roughly dried off and strode into the bedroom to dress. 

After doing some light dusting and running a Swiffer over the floor, I made a quick ploughman’s style lunch of cheese, roasted red peppers and some crusty bread from the bakery I’d mentioned to Laura the night before. Kit checked in, said Ellie Goldschmidt was up for an interview and I made plans to pick her up at the station in 20 minutes (stopping for some coffee first, of course). 

We arrived at Ellie and Caroline’s rooms about 12:45 and found the women were at home and joined by Ellie’s Aunt Barbara who lived a few towns away. Barbara was the youngest of Ellie’s aunts and uncles, closer in age to her niece and more like an older sister, Ellie explained. It was clear that the three women interacted often and warmly; Caroline and Barbara hugged and responded as family would. 

Ellie looked tired and sore after her ordeal but was eager to talk with us. This time, Caroline signed for us, giving Kit a chance to take notes. Ellie gave us a more comprehensive version of what she told us in the ED. It was no secret that she walked along the canal that time of night. She gave us a description of the home where she stopped and the owners; Kit would follow up with them. 

“Can you give us any description of your attacker, anything that’s come to mind since last night?” I asked gently. 

Ellie closed her eyes and slowly opened them. “She was an inch or two taller than me. I got a sense—I don’t know, kind of intuition—that she knew me. Something about the way she lashed out seemed almost personal, angry. That perfume…very 1980s, like it’s making a comeback cuz I’ve smelt it recently. Or maybe something she’s worn since then.”  
“You are profoundly deaf, is that right?” Kit asked. Ellie nodded. 

“Ever considered cochlear implants?” 

She had no plans to get cochlear implants. She had been deaf since birth. Unlike Caroline, Ellie said she wanted to study and then practice law as a profoundly deaf solicitor or barrister. 

“It’s not a case of one of us being right and the other wrong,” Ellie explained, putting her arm around her girlfriend. “We each can make a difference in the lives of deaf and hearing-impaired clients. Or I might use a law degree to challenge laws and prevent discrimination within our community. There are countless ways I can help—and Caro can help.”   
Ellie thought for a moment. “I take it Caro told you about the Stewart-MacKinnon scholarship?” We nodded. “We all knew that Lindsay, Caroline and I were in the running for it. The don in charge of the selection committee, Professor Rawley, told us as much several weeks ago. The three of us, and Chelsea, teased each other about it. We wished they could split it three ways. To us, it didn’t matter whether one of us had implants or not: we all knew the struggles of deaf and hearing-impaired individuals in our society and we all can contribute to their betterment.” 

“Did or does it matter to someone you know?” I asked. Ellie’s phrasing seemed precise but I couldn’t tell whether something was lost in translation. I nodded to Kit to pay close attention. 

Ellie looked apologetically at Caroline, who blushed and sighed. The latter spoke. “It matters to my mum,” she acknowledged. “Ellie’s right—we’d all be thrilled for whoever gets it—but Mum…well…she’s been worried about whether my getting implants would disqualify me. I’m not worried. If I don’t get this, there are other funding options, stipends, I could graduate and go right to work…”

“We will work it out, love,” Ellie told her, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. Caroline leaned into her and nodded. 

“And, as I’ve told you, the pair of you would be welcome to live with me if that helps,” Barbara said. She turned to us. “I often travel for business and have loads of space. They’d pretty much have the place to themselves three weeks out of four and be doing me a favor.” 

The younger women nodded and pulled her into a hug. Kit looked at me and I nodded. 

“Thank you, that is all we have for now, ladies. We appreciate your cooperation. Ellie, if you have to leave to see your gran, please give me a call so I know where you are,” I handed her my card. “I’d like to keep the extra security around you for the time being, just as a precaution.” They nodded and seemed relieved. “Rest up and I’m glad your injuries weren’t more severe, Ellie.” 

Barbara was leaving at the same time as we were so the three of us walked down together. Barbara explained she was the only family member nearby enough; the rest of the family was still up North in Yorkshire. She herself had moved down for Oxford (chemistry PhD) and now worked for a pharmaceutical company. 

“We see each other at least once a week—for coffee or dinner—but I still wanted to check on the girls. To me, they’re both like my nieces. Caro is a lovely woman, I couldn’t have wished for a better partner for our Ellie. Wish I could say the same for Caroline’s family,” she said, but there was no anger in her voice, only sadness and disappointment.   
“How’d you mean?” I asked as Marsh and I exchanged looks. 

“Again, nothing against Caro. But her mum’s always nosing into her daughter’s life. Calls every day, multiple times a day. Drops by unannounced to meet her at her classroom. Checked up on her with her dons. I know a couple—they try to dodge her calls. But she won’t meet Ellie. Refuses to. They’ve tried to have her to tea. We don’t know whether it’s personal. Caro has given up, says her mum is a bit daft and clingy.”

Barbara continued as we reached the entrance to the quad. “But given what’s happened to Ellie, it’s been nice for Caroline to have a break from her.” She saw our quirked eyebrows. “Apparently, Caro’s dad phoned to say she’d taken a fall last night and broken her wrist. Had to have surgery on it today. Caro plans to see her tomorrow once her mum gets settled at home. She’s worried about Ellie and said her mum and dad could managed just fine.” 

We thanked her for her candor, I gave her my card in case she thought of something else or had concerns. We stopped by a coffee kiosk on the sidewalk. This time, Kit insisted on buying for both of us, a fancy mocha-something latte topped with whipped cream and chocolate drizzle for herself and a plain coffee with milk for me. I must have looked aghast at her concoction because she giggled and said “It’s medicinal.” 

“Ah, carry on then, Marsh,” I replied knowingly, and we shared a laugh. After comparing notes, we both agreed it would be worth interviewing Mrs Delby, but we didn’t want to alert her daughter. Kit said she’d make some calls to track down the woman’s movements and try to line up an interview with her surgeon. Were we zeroing in on Lindsay Beaumont’s murderer and Ellie’s attacker? Was Mrs Delby’s “fall” a mere coincidence? Would someone actually commit murder and attempt another to increase her child’s chance of getting a scholarship? 

Driving home, a case from the American South came to mind. A would-be cheerleader’s mum tried to hire a hit man to kill the mother of another student. The motive: make the other girl so grief-stricken that she would bow out of the squad competition and the woman’s own daughter would be given the only open slot on the coveted team. 

Once home, I called Laura to ask what Greek dishes she would like. “Surprise me!” she said. “I love it all.” After giving her my address and directions, I called in an order for delivery at my favorite local Greek place. Greek salad, spanakopita, hummus, stuffed grape leaves, tzatziki sauce and baklava for dessert. I changed out of my work attire into a comfortable pair of pale jeans and an old v-neck sweater of my father’s that I’d borrowed on one visit and failed to return. I chuckled to myself when I took off my shoes and saw Eeyore’s forlorn expression staring back at me as if daring me to enjoy the evening. 

I poured myself a tonic water—being one of those rare birds who actually enjoys the taste of it, quinine or not—and was just sitting down to drink it when I heard noises outside. 

Oh bother, I thought, to borrow Eeyore’s favorite phrase. Bloody hell, to use my own. On the walkway approaching my cottage were Laura…and my ex, Helen Charleson.


	24. Sour Cherry and Sandlewood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take heart, dear readers...

“She’s expecting me,” Laura said, trying to get past Helen on the stone path. 

“Ah, but I arrived first,” retorted Helen, always highly competitive. You didn’t make QC as young as she had if you weren’t. “Wait…I know you,” she said eying Laura up and down. “You’re that forensic pathologist. I bested you in court several times.” 

Dr Laura Hobson stood her ground. “I seem to recall different outcomes, particularly to your last several CPS cases. I believe the term you’re looking for was “making a complete bollocks of”. But then you fell off the face of the Earth…” 

I couldn’t help but smirk. Atta girl, Dr Hobson. Checkmate. 

I composed myself and opened the door. “Laura is a welcomed guest, Helen. You are not. Please leave. Now.” I stepped aside to let Laura through, but Helen barged in too. Fuck. I really didn’t need this. 

“Your new girlfriend, I presume,” Helen scoffed. In my peripheral vision, I could see Laura straighten her shoulders, stand taller. She was about four inches shorter than Helen, six inches shorter than me. 

“I’m so sorry about this. Give me a minute?” I said to Laura as I motioned Helen into the kitchen area. “Helen, what the hell are you doing here?” 

She dropped her hard-arse act for a moment. “I need to talk to you. I don’t have your current phone number and, no matter what you think of me, I wouldn’t show up at your squad. So I came here.” 

She looked like the old Helen Charleson, before insecurities, alcoholism and the drink driving arrest ruined her career and our relationship. Her short brunette hair had a few gray strands but it was neatly styled and washed. Her dark chocolate eyes were clear and sharp as they took in my home, searching for any changes I may have made and, no doubt, any evidence of a girlfriend beyond Laura’s presence. 

Her next statement floored me. “I want to make amends to you—and…” her self-confidence faltered. She looked in the direction of Laura, who was busy studying the weave of the living room area rug.

“And?” I pushed her. She rolled her eyes, half in arrogance—the old Helen—half in “Are you really going to make me spell it out?” reluctance. 

“I still love you,” Helen said. Laura’s head lifted. She looked from Helen to me, eyes widening, face flushing and began walking toward the door. 

Just then, someone knocked at the door. 

“Laura, please wait. This is probably the food,” I urged, somewhat lamely. 

“Suddenly, I’m not hungry. I’ll leave you two to it,” she said in a rueful tone and she slipped out the door as soon as I opened it to the delivery man. I took in the food, signed the receipt and thanked him as he left. Helen looked on expectantly. 

“You didn’t even introduce us,” she noted. ‘Well, if you can’t take the heat…” she sneered, regarding more of her confidence, nodding at the door. 

I took a deep breath. Exhaled. Counted to ten. “Helen—”

“I am 9 months sober today. I’m working for the law school, editing books for professors. I live in a studio apartment—”

“And I am happy for you,” I broke in. “But there’s no—”

“You haven’t even given me a chance,” she began, tears in her eyes.

“I’m not required to do so. Leave now, please,” I said firmly, pointing toward the door. 

She tried a different tact. “I’ve clearly interrupted something. But, please, I do hope you’ll let me make amends…maybe we could meet for coffee?” She scribbled her mobile number down on a piece of paper and handed it to me. I tossed it onto the kitchen island. 

“You’ve got one hell of a bloody nerve. You arrive at my home, unbidden and unwelcome and then behaved atrociously to my guest—and, for the record, the status of our relationship is none of your goddamned business. You forfeited the privilege of knowing anything about my life 2 years ago. 

“DOCTOR Laura Hobson has more integrity, kindness and manners in her pinkie than you do in your entire body. I’d rather spend eternity in her company than 30 minutes in yours. Now get the hell of out of my house.” 

I was surprised to see tears streaming down Helen’s face, but didn’t care. I opened the door. As she stepped through, I added, “And Helen,” she turned expectantly. “Lose this address. If I see you here again, I’ll take out a restraining order.” 

Closing the door, I took the rare step of bolting it. I simply needed the extra sense of my own space. I scrubbed my hands over my face. What a complete and utter clusterfuck, as my American friend Amy would say. 

My hands shook. Even though I confront suspects and criminals in my professional life, I truly shy away from confrontation in my personal life. I stepped out onto the back deck and lit up a cigarette, savoring the slight burn of the menthol. Filthy habit. Must give it up. Not this moment. A few deep drags were all I needed to right myself.   
I closed the French doors and lit a stick of Shoyeido Joy incense. Its mellow aroma always calmed and grounded me. Picking my mobile, I clicked on Laura’s number, its placement on my Favorites list a testament to how quickly our friendship had become important to me. 

But before the call connected, I ended it. Christ, I’d been so blind. I thought back to the dinners, the shared laughter, how much I’d looked forward to that evening, the locker room…

Friendship, Raymond. Really? Next you’ll be talk-singing “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Face” like Rex Harrison in “My Fair Lady.” Yes, you do value Laura Hobson as a friend, a very good friend. But if she were only a friend, would you have verbally sliced Helen to bits after she attacked Laura? 

Your head may not have been ready yet for a romantic relationship but your heart—and libido, truth be told—has been pulling you in that direction with a certain blonde pathologist. 

Some detective you are, Jill Raymond, I thought, raking my fingers through my hair. You like Laura Hobson…you more than like her. 

With a goofy grin, I tried Laura’s number again, letting it ring through this time. 

Please pick up, Laura, I said aloud.


	25. Vetiver and Frankincense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does she or doesn't she?

The caller ID on my phone said “Jill”. I sighed. I’d just arrived home and poured myself a glass of port with an eye to making a cheese plate and taking a long soak in the tub. 

Should I pick up? Did I want to hear about Helen Bloody Charleson? Wait, that wasn’t fair to Jill. It was clear from her reaction that she wasn’t expecting and didn’t want to see Helen.   
I picked up the call, my tone cautious. “Hi Jill. How are you?” 

“Been better. But how are you, Laura? I am so sorry for what happened. I understand completely why you left. But…would you consider coming back? I-uhm-I…” Jill faltered. I heard her take a deep breath. “There are some things I’ll like to explain to you, tell you. Please.”

This was a side of Jill Raymond I’d not heard. Earnest, a bit anxious. Vulnerable. 

“Alright,” I said, my tone regaining its usual warmth when speaking with her. “Pop the spanakopita in the oven to heat up. I’ll be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” 

When I pulled up the drive to Jill’s cottage, she was sat out on the steps, a whisky glass by her side. As I got out of the car, she stood and walked over to me. Before I could say anything besides “Hi,” she pulled me into a hug. 

She gave, still gives, excellent hugs. It felt like more than a hug of friendship but maybe, I thought, you’re reading too much into a wrapping of arms. Slow down, Laura.   
“Laura, I am so, so sorry,” she whispered into my hair. 

“It’s ok, Jill. I know her visit was a surprise, and not a very welcome one at that,” I said, rubbing her back lightly before realizing what I was doing and dropping my hands. I covered up my embarrassment by motioning toward the cottage. “I am starving—and you promised excellent Greek food. Lead on, MacDuff!” 

Jill pulled the tray of spanakopita out of the oven and yelped. Shaking her right wrist, she quickly placed it on the teak dining table with the rest of the food. “Damn,” she muttered, turning on the faucet to “Cold” and rinsing the linear red burn from where the back of her hand had hit the oven rack. I wanted to kiss it and “make it better” but that seemed a tad too…something. 

“Here, sit,” I directed her instead. I found some ice cubes in her freezer, wrapped a tea towel around them and handed them to her. “I can get out the plates and such. You relax.” She started to stand but I gently pushed her shoulders down. (Which inadvertently gave me a direct line of sight down her loose v-neck sweater; she wasn’t wearing a bra and her breasts were…Really, Hobson? Get a grip!) “Doctor’s orders!” 

She twisted her head to look up at me, a small smile pulling one side of her mouth. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The person behind the bears is revealed.

Laura winked back at me and her cheeky smile matched mine. Good, we were back on an even footing. 

I asked her to help herself to whatever beverage she liked in the fridge. She chose a crisp IPA left over from when Gerard had stopped by a few months back. He had followed our father into journalism and was teaching at Columbia University’s School of Journalism in Manhattan. Based in the Hudson River Valley about two hours north of the city, he reveled in trying new micro-brews and hard ciders and hunting them down here upon his return. 

She cracked open the bottle and drank a few swigs right from its mouth. Then a burp that seemed larger than her erupted from her open mouth. “Ah…oops, I beg your pardon,” she apologized, hand to her throat. 

“Such a dainty creature, you,” I told her and laughed til tears came to my eyes. Laura mock-curtsied and laughed too. 

“Please come and sit down and join me. There’s plenty,” I urged once I could breathe again. As if by silent agreement, we talked about everything but what had taken place earlier. There’d be time enough for that over coffee and dessert. 

As we wrapped up the leftovers, I had an idea. “I haven’t given you the 5p tour, have I? C’mon then, we’ll work off some of dinner and create some room for baklava.” I showed Laura round the place. The en suite got oohs and ahhs as did the back deck. When we returned to the living room area, I stopped in front of a steamer trunk tucked into a corner by the bookcases. Laura looked intrigued. 

“I have a confession,” I said, slowly opening the trunk. Inside were all the accoutrement for creating dapper teddy bears—from the stuffing and plush fur to tiny eyes and noses and fabrics for making their bespoke little outfits. 

Laura gasped. “It’s YOU?!” she said, shock raising her voice in tone and decibels. “YOU’RE the elderly recluse who makes the bears?” 

I smiled, half out of pride, half shy nervousness. “Yup. Guilty. There’s a story behind them, besides the Philadelphia one. I---”

But then Laura surprised me. She reached over and gently clasped my right hand in both of hers. “Jill Raymond, you sly dog. Can I ask why you haven’t told me before now? I can keep a secret.” 

I looked down at our hands, still held together. It felt good. “I know you can. It’s why I’m telling you now. Would you believe that old chestnut ‘It’s not you, it’s me’?” I smiled sheepishly. 

“Go on,” she coaxed. “Continue while we get the coffee and dessert ready.” I closed up the trunk and we walked to the kitchen, my hand missing the warm tingle of Laura’s. 

“When my mum died, as I may have mentioned, I was only 5. I remember going to some official, odd-smelling building with my father. The boys were already at boarding school. Dad had to identify Mum’s body. I was frightened and beyond sad. Worried. I’d never seen Dad cry before, this great, tall man who was like Superman to me. He was shattered. They took him off to see her and a female officer waited with me. I looked around and saw that the desk sergeant had a teddy bear on his desk. He saw me looking at me, picked it up, walked it over to me and put the bear in my arms. ‘Here, young lady,’ he said, this big gruff-looking bloke. ‘This bear just told me that his new assignment is to go home with you. He said he really hopes you like him. You can tell him anything—he’s an expert at keeping secrets and absolutely brilliant at giving hugs.’”

I paused to grind the coffee beans and dump them into the French press while Laura filled and started the electric kettle. 

“So the bear, now christened Bobby, came home with me. Dad looked surprised, but the desk sergeant, Sgt. Munro, assured him it was a done deal. I found out later that Sgt. Munro’s wife would make bears for him to give out to children like me who found themselves lost or frightened or worse at the station. When I became a constable, I remembered his kindness and wanted to pay it forward. Hence, this generation of bears. I have to admit, sometimes I don’t have the extra time to make the bears themselves and so I buy them from a local group that hires people with learning difficulties. But the outfits are all handmade by me. And one reason Becca wanted to learn to knit was so she could make them little scarves or jumpers.” 

I poured the boiling water over the French press grinds. Laura sliced the baklava in two, the crackle of the crisp phyllo pastry complementing the gurgling of the water. She licked her finger where some of the sticky honey had smeared onto it. 

“By the way, you’ve seen Bobby. He sits in pride of place on my desk in the squad room.” I set the timer for the coffee and pulled out plates for the baklava. “Laura, please don’t be angry or think I didn’t trust you," I reassured her. 

“No one outside of my family knows I’m the real person behind the bears—you’re the first I’ve told. I suppose it’s partly because it originates from a very painful time,” I said, my voice going soft with memories. “And partly because I like to do things anonymously. It’s more about the action than needing credit for it.” 

I looked over at Laura and was going to suggest we bring everything to the living room when I saw her eyes had misted over. “Laura, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

“N-nothing’s wrong,” she said, wiping her eyes on the tissue I handed her, trying to smile. “It’s just…you have no idea the affect you have on people—on me. That you could turn such an awful time into a wonderful gift for others…you’re…you’re amazing.” 

Suddenly, standing in the kitchen, Laura had leaned up and kissed me. 

Not the friendly peck on the cheek she gave me upon our parting from time to time. No. This one landed squarely, quite deliberately on my lips. She pulled back for a second to study my face and then kissed me with even more fervor a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, lovely readers, for the wonderful feedback and input. Please keep those suggestions and constructive criticism coming!


	27. Sweet Myrrh and Neroli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Jill kiss Laura?

And my own lips responded as if silently pulled to a home I didn’t even know was mine. 

A place for which I’d yearned but that wasn’t on any map. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks now,” Laura murmured against my cheek, sending shivers down my nape and well below. 

“I’m so very glad you did,” I whispered and kissed her full on the mouth, letting my lips convey the same emotion to her. 

With a groan that twinned joy and desire, I parted her lips with my tongue and was welcomed by an at-first tentative then more earnest flick of Laura’s tongue responding. Laura’s arms reached up to bury themselves in my hair, one of mine circled her slim waist, the other cupped her neck. I tasted the slight bitterness of the ale on her lips along with a bottom note of honey from the baklava syrup. I wanted to drink her in. 

Laura Hobson was—is—an excellent kisser. That was obvious in the first several minutes that our lips first danced together. With little swipes and curls of her tongue, I thought my knees would give way. Sensing that, she dropped her hands out of my hair and cupped my arse cheeks. 

Well now, I thought with a vocal moan. Not so straight after all. Definitely higher on the Kinsey scale, I theorized before she lightly bit my lower lip and liquified any coherent thought clear out of my brain. 

Then…and then my mobile signaled I had a text. My mind re-surfaced. “I’m so sorry, I have to check this,” I said to Laura, still holding on to her back. 

The text was from Ellie Goldschmidt: 

“I recognized the perfume my attacker wore. I hope I’m wrong about this. Can u meet me? E”

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have shared such communications with a partner, girlfriend or…or whatever Laura might be besides “friend”. But she was also involved in this case and I wanted to give her an explanation for my need to suddenly and immediately leave. 

Laura thoughtfully rubbed her lower lip, slightly swollen from where I’d nibbled on it. “Of course, I absolutely understand. Would you like me to wait here for you?”

“Would you?” My heart leapt at the idea of coming home to her and continuing our conversation later. 

She nodded. “I’ll have some coffee and dessert. I always have knitting with me. Go, I’ll be here when you get back,” she said. She lightly reached up to kiss my cheek, gripped my shoulder for a moment. 

I texted Ellie back. We arranged to meet at an off-campus coffee shop. Her choice. Although I didn’t know sign language, she said she would bring her laptop so we could communicate through that. I didn’t ask why Caroline Delby couldn’t come along and sign, figuring Ellie had her reasons.

As I kissed Laura good-bye, I marveled at how the evening had somersaulted a few times but landed on its feet like a cat. Even though my intuition told me I had reason for concern regarding the case, I drove to the city center with a smile in my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the process of uploading an edited version of this piece, but with a lot of us self-isolating and stressed due to COV-19, I thought I'd post a couple of quick new chapters for you. 
> 
> MANY thanks to Justine472 and Terfle for their thoughtful and helpful suggestions for this American who's writing about two English characters. While I did research some terms and elements, and I grew up with a father who spoke with a Glaswegian accent, neither is a substitute for being immersed day to day in a country. For example, Passion perfume smells to me like grape jelly--but when I double checked I learned that it's highly unlikely that any British resident would have that frame of reference. Grape jelly is, well, as American as our apple pie. 
> 
> Thanks too, to all of you who've been so encouraging about this shipping. I can assure you, once this piece is over, there will be more of Jill and Laura ahead! xx


	28. Artemisia and Honey

Ellie Goldschmidt and I met in a Starbucks that stayed open late and sat at a table toward the back. It was then past 11 pm and the cafe was nearly empty. The staff were taking advantage of the lull to begin closing chores. After getting our drinks, Ellie flipped open her laptop and found a blank page. She angled the computer so we could pass it back and worth. Her wounds, while still sutured and covered by thin adhesive strips, seemed to be healing well. She began to type. 

“Thank you for meeting me. I know it’s late. But I think this could be important and my Gran died earlier today so I have to leave for Yorkshire tomorrow first thing.”

I used my facial expression and text on the screen to offer her my condolences and gratitude. She began typing again. 

“Remember I said it was a distinctive older perfume?” I nodded. “I think it was something called ‘Passion’, from Elizabeth Taylor.” 

I tilted my head and typed “That’s pretty specific. How do you know that’s what it was?” 

Ellie winced and took a deep breath. Clearly, she was unhappy about what she was about to reveal. 

“Because I smelled it on Caro this afternoon. When she came back from helping her mum get settled at home from hospital. That’s her mum’s scent. Worn it for as long as Caro can remember. I asked her what it was when she came home and hugged me. She reeked of it. Cloyingly sweet.” And there she made the universal face of disgust, furrowed brow, scrunched up nose. 

“With that and her broken wrist…” 

I typed: “You wonder whether Mrs Delby is the person who attacked you?”   
s  
Ellie shifted uncomfortably. Over a few seconds, her face and body language conveyed a mix of emotions—anger, fear, sadness. She knew if this was true, it meant that someone close to the woman she loved had tried to kill her. I had to ask: 

“Do you think Caroline knew anything about this?” 

Ellie became agitated. “NO! She has been nothing but horrified by the attack and very loving toward me. But I needed to come and tell you alone…because I know she is close to her mum and didn’t want her even inadvertently tipping her off. I want whoever attacked me and killed Lindsay to be brought to justice, no matter who it is…No matter the personal consequences.” And when I looked up, I saw tears streaming down her cheeks. 

I placed a comforting hand on her arm for a moment and then typed “Thank you for sharing this with me. Do you feel safe going back to your rooms and spending the night there?”

She nodded. “Will Caroline be going with you tomorrow?” Another nod. “Barbara will drive us up. She’s picking us up at 6:30 am. Takes about 4 hours to get there.” 

“Will you have you mobile with you and can you give me a second number when I can reach you, even Barbara’s?” She typed it out and I snapped a photo with my phone. 

“And can you email me this whole conversation and agree to come in for a formal interview upon your return?” She nodded. I pulled out one of my cards so she could see my email address. 

“Would you like me to drop you outside the Ashburn gate?” Yes. “I can have a security person meet us and make sure you get in ok.” 

“One last thing: Where did you tell Caroline you were going?” 

A sad smile as she wiped her tears on a Starbucks napkin. “I said I needed some time to myself. She understood.” 

After dropping off Ellie, I parked for a moment and texted Kit Marsh. I apologized for the lateness of the hour and told her we needed to meet at the station at 9 am the next morning. I said I would forward her the conversation with Ellie in the meantime and did so. 

When I arrived home, the living room light was still on. As I opened the door, Laura was sitting up on the Chesterfield. She quickly hid whatever she was working on back in her knapsack. I quirked an eyebrow. 

“Never you mind, nosey parker,” she gently chided me. Then, more seriously, “How did it go?” as she started to warm up the coffee for me. 

“No coffee, thanks, or else I’ll never get to sleep tonight. I will have the baklava, though,” and I grabbed a fork from the drawer and brought the plate to join her on the sofa. I pulled off the top layer of phyllo and savored the crunchy sweetness. Then I leaned over to Laura, whose eyes were focused on my mouth. 

“Hmm, now where were we?” I breathed, kissing her on the lips. A small whimper escaped as she tasted the blend of Starbucks’ dark roast and the honey on my mouth.


	29. Cayenne and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit more heat for you.

Jill Raymond can kiss. 

Her thin lips were silky, her tongue like velvet honey. A couple of the men I’d kissed were ok kissers. But there was nothing like kissing a woman—I mean, really kissing a woman—for the first time. Nothing like kissing and being kissed by Jill for the first time. 

There was a sweet yet fiery tenderness to Jill’s kisses. She urged my mouth open again with a gentle tongue, groaning as my tongue met hers with a curl of homecoming. Her teeth nipped at my bottom lip. My turn to give a moan of encouragement. I adored having my lip nibbled. 

As the minutes passed, she slowly expanded beyond my mouth, kissing my neck, circling an earlobe, giving it a tender nuzzle too that sent a rush of heat to my groin. For my body, which had gotten by on sleep-inducing selfcare for so long, it was like spring had bloomed in a winter garden. 

But when she started to move aside the opening to my shirt and venture below, I stopped her. “Jill, wait…please stop.” 

She immediately withdrew her mouth and hands, looked me in the eye with an expression that was both questioning and dazed. “Oh God, did I hurt you?” she panted. No, I shook my head, still gathering my thoughts. 

“No,” I said aloud to her, running my hands down her arms. “What you were doing was absolutely amazing. It’s just…this is new to me. Being with a woman…” 

“Ah,” she acknowledged, her breath slowly returning to normal, her deep hazel eyes becoming clear again. “I was moving a bit quickly, wasn’t I?” 

I liked that she asked. “Maybe just a little,” I said, holding my thumb and pointer finger about half an inch apart. 

Jill ducked her head, then raised it again to look into my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Laura. I guess I got carried away in the moment. Can you forgive me?” 

I reached up to stroke her blonde hair, tucking a few stray strands behind her ear. “Of course. Thank you for stopping as soon as I asked. Believe me, it’s not that I didn’t want to continue. It’s just that…it’s late, we’re both tired after a long week, and I need to take things a little slower.” 

She looked confused. I held up my hand, palm facing her. “I know, I’m the one who kissed you first. I meant to. I wanted to. Don’t regret it. But can we keep it to kissing above the neck for this evening?” 

Jill reached out to take my hand and smiled. “Yup. No problem. Probably best, for all the reasons you mentioned. May I, um, hug you?” I smiled and she circled her arms around me, planting a kiss on my hair. I breathed in the aroma that was Jill Raymond: oak moss, amber, honey and a bottom note of coffee and sighed. I could easily build myself a nest and snuggle into her and the thought made me yawn. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, my dear,” Jill murmured, not unkindly. “You’re welcome to stay the night and sleep on the sofa but I have to be up and out early in the morning.” I uncoiled and reluctantly separated from her to sit next to her while she snacked on more of the baklava. 

“Well,” she began, daintily swiping a smidgeon of honey syrup from her lips. “This evening was a bit of a surprise on many levels. The elephant in the room: that question about whether I would date a woman who didn’t identify as a lesbian? ‘Asking for a friend,’ were you?” She raised her dark eyebrows, her tone soft. 

I blushed, suddenly shy. “Something like that. I didn’t expect to find myself so attracted to a woman, let alone a colleague of sorts. But it happened…and I’m so glad it did. We seemed to have undeniable chemistry from the first day we met.” Jill nodded. “Ah, you felt it too?” 

“Absolutely,” she said. I saw her hand start to reach for mine but she seemed to think better of it and shifted on the sofa so that she was facing me, tucking her long legs underneath her. 

“I know how things work with men, dating I mean. Is it the same with women?” I asked and immediately covered my face with my hands. “God, that sounds so stupid! I mean, here I am, a 50-year-old physician and—”

“Laura, it’s ok. I would probably wonder the same thing if you were a man.” Jill’s eyes and warm tone reassured me. She looked around. “Since I shouldn’t have coffee, we can toast with this,” she said, scooping up a forkful of sticky baklava. “Here’s to taking things slowly and seeing where things go between us?” 

I guided the fork to my mouth, letting my tongue lave the bottom of the tines. And was gratified to hear a tiny gasp from Jill. Then I took the fork from her and held out a chunk of the honey-drenched cake for her. Her tongue swept tantalizingly slowly over her lips. Touche`. My turn to groan slightly. 

“Are you free tomorrow evening,” I asked. “Or should we see how the case goes?” 

Jill furrowed her brow, tilted her head. “Hmm, probably best to wait and see. Alright if I text you midday and give you a sense of how it going?” 

“That would be great. I may wind up doing some paperwork and follow-up calls from home in the morning. Always paperwork in my job too,” I noted. I looked at my watch—2 am—and stood to leave. Jill stood too and we walked to the door. A final kiss, not deep enough to ignite the embers again but enough to send a flare of warmth over me. 

“Jill. Be careful. A cornered mother bear…” I said and saw she got my meaning. 

“I will. More reason than ever to be careful, Laura.” We hugged and I left for home feeling as thought I were working on a cloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again for your comments of encouragement and for sharing how strongly you feel about this shipping!   
> A little angst coming your way next but remember: these two have a very happy ending in the long run! :-)


	30. Chapter 30

Despite getting to bed after 2 am, I was up and out the door by 6 am. I needed to review the case thus far and wanted to alert Chief Superintendent Innocent about the developments. Kit March and I regrouped about 7:30. We reviewed my conversation with Ellie the night before. All signs led us to Caroline Delby’s mother, Sheila. 

We had followed up with the professor in charge of the Stewart-MacKinnon scholarship; he confirmed that all three young women—well, now two—were competing for the prize. 

No, he said, having cochlear implants did not disqualify a student from consideration. However, he noted that Sheila Delby had asked him about that several times. Further, she had tried to curry favor with him, sending him hand-written notes, often with bottles of port, almost weekly. She had apparently read an article in a university publication that mentioned he enjoyed sampling different ports with friends during a regular poker night he organized. 

“I’m used to dealing with persistent parents,” the professor told Kit. “But Sheila Delby is in a category all her own. She is a bloody nuisance.” 

During a phone interview with the consultant surgeon who repaired Mrs Delby’s wrist, I learned that her injury, known as a Colles’ fracture, required surgery to stabilize the ulna and reduce the risk of deformity. While such an injury would most likely occur as someone braced for a fall and landed on the wrist, he acknowledged it could occur if the person’s wrist was bent backward, say to loosen the person’s grip on a knife. 

We also checked with the police force that oversaw the Oxford suburb where the Delbys lived. While Stephen Delby, Sheila’s husband, had left on a long-standing business trip late last night, Sheila was home and being assisted by her daughter, Caroline, until that morning when Caroline had left to join Ellie and Barbara Goldschmidt on their trip to Leeds. A community nurse was scheduled to check on Sheila later that day but she was alone in the house for the time being. The chief superintendent there promised to keep eyes on the home from that moment on. 

Thanks to Ellie’s quick thinking, we had the knife used in her assault, a small chef’s knife part of a J.A. Henckels set that came with a knife block. Whether the Delbys had such a set and whether it was missing this particular knife remained to be seen once we secured a search warrant. Jean was working to expedite that. 

By late morning, we were ready. Search warrant in place, Kit and I drove to the Delbys’ detached home in a leafy suburb. The house had the appearance of neglect around the edges—the rotting, straw-like stems of last year’s flowers lay about the front walk in pots, a few cracked. The windows could have done with a good washing. The few neighbors out that morning, tending their own meticulously maintained home exteriors, looked up and quickly looked away as we got out of the car. None looked surprised. Perhaps they’d become used to seeing official-looking visitors to the Delby home. Or perhaps they didn’t want to know. 

I removed my ID card from my coat pocket while Kit knocked. We saw a figure approach, appearing as a darker and darker wavy shadow behind the stained-glass window in the door. Sheila Delby opened the door with an air of entitlement that didn’t match her appearance. Her eyes bore dark circles, her blonde bob looked days away from its last shampoo. Her medium frame sagged in its dingy off-white robe when she saw us and she raised her left hand to cradle her right arm as if its white sling wasn’t sturdy enough. Although it was a bit past 11 in the morning, she squinted as one does waking from a nap. 

“Y-yes, what do you want?” Sheila Delby asked, though I held up my warrant card with badge for her to see. 

“Mrs Sheila Delby? I’m Detective Inspector Raymond, this is Detective Constable Marsh. May we come in?” 

She hesitated. “What is this about?” She asked as she looked over my card as if buying time. But she stepped aside and let us in. 

“We’d like to talk with you about the attacks, one fatal, on two female students at Oxford. One of the women is the girlfriend of your daughter, Caroline,” I continued as we followed her into the kitchen. 

The kitchen had the same tired look as the rest of the property. The tile floors had coffee-colored spatter stains, the backsplash was, well, splashed. Photos on the refrigerator featured a school-age Caroline with a brighter, healthier looking Sheila. No photos of Stephen Delby adorned the fridge. 

A glass of water and several bottles of medicine lay out on the kitchen counter along with hospital discharge papers. 

Also on the counter next to the coffee maker was a Henckels wooden knife block. 

With one slot vacant. Kit and I exchanged looks. 

Sheila may have seen those looks because she suddenly found her manners and offered to make us coffee. We declined but before we could stop her, she’d announced she herself would like a cup and walked toward the counter. 

“Please sit down, Mrs Delby,” I said firmly, walking to her side. But it wasn’t a knife I should have worried about. Sheila Delby had a pair of scissors in her deep robe pocket. And that’s what she suddenly turned and thrust into my abdomen with fierce determination.

I managed to grab her bandaged arm and twist it, hearing her howl in pain as I sagged to the floor, holding the scissors still with my other hand.

Kit was on her in a flash, wrestling her to the floor and cuffing her to the stove handle while calling for back up. She then applied a kitchen towel to the wound, wrapping it around the scissors to hold it in place. 

“Stay with me, Guv. Hang on, Jill,” was the last thing I heard her say and I smiled to myself before losing consciousness. She finally called me by my first name.


	31. Juniper and Myrrh

“Laura Hobson,” I answered my mobile, not looking up from my laptop when I answered the phone. I’d been editing a PM report before labeling it “official”. Doesn’t give much confidence in one’s report if you miss even a single grammatical or punctuation mistake. 

“Laura, it’s Jean,” Jean Innocent said. Her tone was even but clipped, official. “I know you and Jill Raymond are friends…” My heart sank, I felt gut-punched by a huge bloke. Jill. “The doctors think she’ll be ok but she was stabbed in the abdomen about an hour ago while interviewing a suspect. She’s in surgery now if you come round the hospital. Kit Marsh and I are here.” 

“Oh God, thank you for letting me know, Jean. Yes. I’ll be right there. Thank you. Bye.” I stuffed my laptop and reports in my briefcase and practically ran out the door and sped off, saying a prayer, something I’d nearly forgotten how to do. But, like riding the proverbial bicycle, it never truly leaves one after a solid Catholic school education. 

I met Jean and Kit Marsh in the surgical waiting area and handed them the Costa coffees (with extra shots) I’d picked up on my way in. Thank heavens for drive-thrus! “Any word?”   
Jean hugged me and nodded her thanks for the coffee as Kit thanked me. “Nothing yet. But she’d only been in for about 30 minutes.” 

“What happened?” I sat down on the plain, functional sofa across from them. 

Jean explained that Jill and Kit had been talking with suspect Sheila Delby when Delby suddenly pulled a pair of scissors from the pocket of her robe and thrust it into Jill’s abdomen. She noted how Kit had acted quickly to secure the suspect, call for back-up and perform first-aid on her partner. Kit looked down at her lap. 

“Should have frisked her,” she said quietly, her voice full of self-doubt. 

Jean placed a strong hand on her shoulder. “No, Kit, don’t do this to yourself. You both followed protocol for an interview like that. If anything, I’ll be putting you in for a commendation for keeping your wits about you and doing all you did,” Jean turned to me. “And Sheila Delby did confess to Lindsay Beaumont’s murder and the attack on Ellie Goldschmidt. Thank goodness her dominant hand was too bandaged to use. That, and your quick thinking, Marsh, ensured Jill’s injury is not more serious.” 

“Thank you, Kit. And, for the record, I agree with Chief Superintendent Innocent’s comments,” I reassured the young detective. I pulled a clean packet of tissues from my briefcase and handed it to her. 

“T-thank you both, Ma’am and Dr Hobson. I’m going to the loo. Be right back.” Kit walked down the hall and through the double doors. 

Jean looked at me with a kind expression. “Kit may have felt awkward telling you herself. But while she and Jill were waiting for the ambulance, she heard Jill said your name. Laura, are you and Jill…?” 

“…Together?” I completed the thought for her. I stared through a window, watching a young man outside help a young woman into the passenger seat of their car. His expression and body language, even from a distance, were tender, solicitous, loving. Would I be helping Jill into my car in a day or so, with actions and feelings that mirrored this man’s? I hoped it would be so. 

I spoke with a sense of wonder. “I think so. I mean, it seems likely.” Seeing Jean’s head tilt and questioning eyes, I explained broadly what had transpired. “I don’t think either of us expected it, but…” 

Jean came over to me and gave me a heartfelt hug. “Is it too soon to welcome you to the rainbow sisterhood? I know Mandy will be chuffed. She loves you and admires Jill, as do I. I know I tease Jill about her family background, but she has more than proven herself to be a fantastic DI, colleague and mentor.” 

I’d wondered about something but not had a chance to ask Jill directly. “Jean, why do you think she’s still a DI? Clearly, she’s got the intellectual chops to make Chief Inspector or higher.” 

Jean sighed, sipped her coffee. “I’m sure she’d tell you the same because I got this straight from the horse’s mouth. She hates office politics—and you and I know the arse-kissing and CYA only gets worse the higher up you get—is rubbish at administrative work. And, equally importantly, she relishes the actual detective work, the puzzling through and feeling she is actually helping people. You know about the bears, I take it?” 

I nearly dropped my coffee cup. “What?! Yes, but--” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” she put a gentle hand on my arm. “I won’t tell her I know. No one else knows as far as I’m aware. I put two and two together. That’s who Jill is. Every DC and DS she’s ever mentored hero-worships her—I can see that in Kit Marsh’s eyes too. Behind that stoic, ice-maiden exterior beats the heart of a true romantic, compassionate soul. I think you two will make a lovely couple.” 

Before I could respond, a woman in surgical scrubs strode through the double doors to the operating theaters and approached Jean. We all stood. Kit had just returned, looking hopeful. 

“Chief Superintendent, I’m Jacqueline Moses, consultant surgeon. DI Raymond is out of surgery and in recovery. The scissors penetrated through to the peritoneum and nicked the medial tip of the liver, causing internal bleeding. We were able to stop the bleeding and repair the wound. Her liver function should be fine, and she’s on IV antibiotics to prevent infection. Besides DC Marsh’s quick actions, what probably prevented a more serious injury was the fact that her attacker had to use her non-dominant hand.” 

Jean, Kit and I offered our gratitude, and Jean hugged Kit, much to the younger woman’s surprise. “I’ll have a nurse tell you when you can go see her one at a time. She’ll be in hospital for a day or so. Good day,” the consultant said with a smile. 

Kit went back to the squad to fill out some paperwork on the Beaumont case. Jean and I stayed behind; she texted Mandy to fill her in and reached out to Jill’s brother Hal who promised to get there asap. Hal would call Gerard in New York. They decided not to worry the elder Renfrew-Raymond kin by phoning them, knowing Jill would prefer to talk with their father and aunts herself when able. 

A short time later, when a nurse came out to get one of us, Jean nudged me. “Go on, Laura. I’m sure she’d much prefer to see your lovely visage rather than me.” After a hug of thanks for Jean, I walked back to the recovery alcove where Jill lay.


	32. Chapter 32

The nurse recognized me, nodded and let me go the rest of the way alone. I’ve been to countless hospital bedsides. But nothing quite prepares you for seeing a loved one unconscious in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes, intravenous cannulas, and machines. Helpless. Fragile. Abdomen held together with deep and surface sutures, covered by a bandage. (This I knew even though the wound was covered by a sheet and warmed blanket.) 

I slowly sat down on Jill’s right. Her face was pale but her breathing strong and deep. Instinctively, I reached out with my left hand to brush some stray strands of her silky blonde hair back from her forehead. With my right, I held her right hand. 

“I’ve got you, Jill. I’m not letting go. I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered, even though I doubted she could hear me or comprehend. Her thin lips were closed, her eyes too. From time to time, in the first hour or so, she’d mutter something. “No!” once or twice. But nothing else was as clear. They’d given her a whopping dose of morphine post-operatively. 

After a while, I gently removed my hand and pulled my knitting out from my bag. I’d started a pair of self-striping socks for her in shades of blue and green. Knitting is meditative for me—the light clicking of the needles, the tactile feeling of holding and working with wool, even the scent of the yarn was a balm for my senses. The socks were meant to be a surprise for her (I’d secretly measured her shoes while she was washing her hands at my place one night to get an approximate size.). 

Suddenly I stopped, mid row. I had never knit anything for a male friend. Ever. Nor for any man I’d dated. I looked over at that gorgeous profile, rarely still enough for me to study so candidly. Her brow furrowed briefly, created horizontal lines on her forehead and a few vertical ones between her dark-blonde eyebrows. Her lips, which had driven me wild and made me hunger for so much more, quirked. My eyes took in her prominent clavicles, which framed strong sternocleidomastoid muscles on either side of her neck…and the dusky hue of a bruise or love bite I may have left the night before, claiming her as my own. 

Was she mine? Was I hers? Only time would tell, but my heart skipped a beat as if to nodding in confirmation and even approval. 

Just then, Jill stirred. I pushed the knitting back in my bag, careful to scooch the yarn back far enough from the needle tips, and returned to my previous position of hand on her hair and atop her own hand. 

Deep hazel eyes slowly focused, seeking and finding my own blue eyes. Jill sighed, sought out my hand, gripped it more strongly than I expected.

“Laura,” she said, more a mouthing than actual speech. And Jill Raymond gave me one of those lopsided puppy smiles that made me realize I was hers, she mine and that I loved her.

“You’re awake,” I said, stating the obvious but not caring whether I sounded dense. I was simply so happy and relieved to see her come back to life. 

*****

As the chains of the anesthesia slowly released their hold on me, the pain rose. I came to in the post-operative area with a whimper and managed a sharp “No!” as they transferred me from operating theater gurney to hospital bed. At least it sounded emphatic and loud in my mind. It apparently came out as a garbled grunt. 

Fuck. A nurse moved to the foreground of my sight and pushed a syringe into the IV line. “This will help, Ms Raymond.” And then, mercifully, I was out again. 

I stirred, dry-mouthed and wool-brained. The lights were evening-dimmed, the machines beeped their white noise rhythm. A citrusy scent, decidedly non-medicinal, reached my nose and a hand stroked my hair back from my forehead. A pale face surrounded by thick blonde hair came into focus. 

“You’re awake,” Laura Hobson said, and I could hear the joy and relief in her voice. 

“Hello you,” I rasped out. “I am. But you can keep your hand where it is, for therapeutic purposes of course,” I half-slurred and gave what I hoped was a cheeky smile but probably wasn’t.

I ran my tongue over dried and chapped lips. Laura reached into a plastic cup and pulled out a shard of ice. She carefully placed it in my mouth. Heaven. I put out my hand to hold the cup myself. 

“Uh-uh, sweetheart. Not yet,” she cautioned, keeping the cup to herself. It was the first time she’d ever referred to me with a term of endearment and it did wonders for my morale. 

“May I sit up higher?” I struggled to prop myself up more but a searing pain near my stomach stopped me. “Fuck,” I grunted. Laura winced empathetically. She reached over to put a pillow in front of me, motioned for me to learn forward, plumped up the pillows behind me and then used the remote control to raise the top of the bed a bit. 

“You, Inspector Raymond, are going to need to be patient and let others help you,” she said firmly but smiled to take the edge off. 

“Hmm, that so?” I murmured. She fed me more ice ships. I wanted to know what the surgeon did, how bad the wound was, the status of Sheila Delby. 

“Hold on, tiger. One at a time,” she said, placing a gentle kiss on my cheek. Laura explained what the surgeon had told her and Jean, going into more detail based on her medical knowledge. “You won’t be lifting more than one pound for a while,” she noted. 

Just then, the porter and nurse came to move me to a room. Laura rubbed my shoulder for a few seconds and told me she’d follow me up in a few minutes. And Jean would be up soon, she said.  
My heart swelled when she asked them to “Take good care of this bear”, quoting Paddington Bear’s little tag. “She belongs to me.”


	33. Bay Rum and Bubble Gum

I came back upstairs after calling Jean, who’d had to leave to return to the station, and filling her in on Jill’s room number and status. I also had stopped at the hospital gift shop to pick up a small vase of flowers to brighten her room. 

When I returned to the AAU floor, there was Becca Renfrew-Raymond knitting away in the family waiting room. 

“Well, hello there, Becca! I don’t know whether you remember me—” I started as I approached her. 

“Dr Hobson! Are you here to see Auntie J too?” Becca dropped her knitting and dashed over to me. “Those flowers are lovely. Are they for her?” 

“Indeed they are. Are your mum and dad in with your aunt?” I asked. Becca told me her mum was out of town handling a case but her father was there. She went back to her chair and picked up her knitting and knapsack. 

“C’mon, I’ll take you to meet him,” she said, linking her arm through mine. Hal Renfrew-Raymond stood as he saw us approach, not before noticing the happy smile that graced his sister’s face when she saw me enter with Becca. 

“And you must be Dr Hobson. I’m Hal, Jill’s brother,” he said with a smile, shaking my hand. Hal had faded reddish hair and brown eyes, so like his sister’s, and stood about 6’ tall. Dressed in jeans and a Shetland sweater, he’d tucked his reading glasses into the crew neck of his sweater. Must be a family trait. 

“I’ve heard so much about you from Becca. This one here,” he said, pointing to his sister and grinning, “she never tells me anything. Always off solving murders and keeping the world safe.” He gently picked up Jill’s right hand and kissed it. “Well, it’s wonderful to meet someone who clearly means so much to my dear sister.” 

I blushed. “And I feel the same about her,” I said softly, giving Jill a wink that made her smile all the more. 

“I told you, Daddy,” Becca chimed in. “I knew it the first day I saw them together.” She parked herself on a corner of Jill’s bed. She was gentle enough but I could see Jill wince with the impact of the gangly tween. She looked tired as well. Hal caught Jill’s expression too. 

“Alright, Becs,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s give Auntie J and Laura some space and go get something to eat. Would you like anything, Laura? A coffee—from the Costa round the corner?” I nodded and started to reach into my bag. “No, don’t even think about it. You’re family,” he said. I gave him my order and thanks and they left. 

“Hey,” Jill whispered. “Come sit here.” She patted the mattress next to her. 

“No, you’re not ready for in-bed visitors quite yet, Raymond,” I told her. She began to pout, adorably so. “Oh, please don’t pout like that, you’ll break my heart. Here, how’s this?” I scooted the chair up against the right side of the bed and lowered the bed rail on that side. She slipped her right hand into mine. 

“Much better,” she sighed. Then a grimace of pain crossed her face, tightening her placid features, and she placed her left hand tenderly on her stomach. “Damn…” she muttered. 

“Don’t be a hero. Use your pain pump,” I urged her. She reluctantly pushed another dose of morphine through the trigger. I removed my hand from hers, motioned I’d be back. With the nurse’s approval, I secured an ice pack for her tummy and returned. “Here, Jill, use this too. It’ll help with the swelling.” 

Jill nodded her thanks and closed her eyes against the deep ache in her abdomen. I offered to stroke her hair and she nodded again without opening her eyes, the lines bracketing her mouth still taut. Holding her right hand with my right, my left slid lightly through her blonde locks in a soothing rhythm. As the morphine did its job, her grip on my hand eased and her face relaxed. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re so good to me, Laura. This bear thanks you,” she mumbled as she gave in to the encroaching drowsiness. 

I placed a tender kiss on her forehead. “That’s it, Paddington. Sleep, darling bear,” I whispered back, though I doubted she could hear. I blinked back tears. My darling bear, I thought. Oh, how you’ve turned my world on its head in the best way possible.


	34. Cinnamon and Lemon

When I awoke, an older nurse (name tag: Marion Dyer) was doing my obs and changing the IV bag. The wall clock read 1:30, the sky black behind the hospital car park lights. She kindly asked if I needed anything, how much pain I was in. At the moment, I felt fine—a bit loopy and cotton-mouthed, but not in pain, as I told her. She saw me looking around. 

“If you’re looking for Dr H, she left about an hour ago, once she saw you’d settled in for the night. Your brother and niece left about 10:30. Lovely young girl, that. She and Dr Hobson were working through a knitting error,” she said and then indicated she’d be right back. 

She returned with a warmed blanket and tucked me in with it after removing the old one. “Must be wonderful for your niece to have two such loving aunties. My own nephew has a young son and my wife and I are always chuffed to bits when we get to spoil him. Well, I’ll let you get back to the job of healing. Just give us a buzz if you’re needing anything, Inspector.” 

Warmed as much by her sentiments as the blanket, I felt cozy and cared for. Deeper thoughts were not currently on my dance card, as it were. But knowing Laura had stayed all day and into the night to keep me company provided an immeasurable sense of comfort and, dare I say, of being loved, that carried me off again to dream land. 

The morning sun streaming through the window when I next woke at half-past 7. I squinted in the dazzling springtime light, putting an arm over my eyes, grunting as I tried to turn away from the brightness. Somehow, I’d ended up against the bed rail on the window side of the bed on my side and unable to turn. I inhaled sharply as pain rippled down my belly with the effort. Fuck. I’d better not tear that incision or there’d be hell to pay. I fumbled with the bed control console and dropped it down the side of the bed and out of reach. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” I cursed through gritted teeth. 

“Hold on there, tiger. Let me get it for you,” Laura said as she plunked her bag down and dashed around the bed to retrieve the console. “Now, would you like help sitting up, turning?” 

“Er, sitting up please,” I said, groaning with the effort. Slowly, Laura helped right me, plumped the pillow and tucked me in again. Once I was settled, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. 

“Good morning, Jill. How did you sleep?” she pulled the bedside chair closer. That morning, a Sunday, she wore casual clothes: an oversized flannel plaid shirt over a light olive t-shirt, jeans and a slightly scuffed pair of turquoise tennis trainers. She looked rested, her blue eyes had regained their sharpness, her lips appeared ready to quirk with a sly comment or a soothing smile. She looked edible. I wished I could fold her into my arms but that would have to wait. 

She removed a bright blue thermos from her bag, poured herself a cup of tea. She brought it to her lips and took a long pull, flicking her tongue against it to catch a stray drip. 

“Fine, considering. Though I must say, I’ve never envied a cup before,” I said, giving her a smile that I hoped looked sexier than I felt. I ran my untethered right hand through my hair. Lord, I must be a sight but she smiled back, blue eyes twinkling, as if I were the visitor and not the patient. 

“You must be improving if your flirting skills are already master level,” she replied as she leaned over to kiss me. She went for my cheek, but I turned so we kissed on the lips. A breathy groan followed—hers, mine, maybe from both of us. The kiss deepened as I tried to show her how much I appreciated her being there, well, more than appreciated it but a knock on the door broke it off. 

Ms. Moses, the consultant surgeon, according to her name tag. I didn’t remember her from the day before, but Laura greeted her warmly. 

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but I need to check your incision, DI Raymond. If it looks good, I think we can discharge you today,” she said, pulling on a pair of disposable gloves. “Dr Hobson, you can stay, if it’s ok with the patient,” she advised Laura, who had started to leave. I nodded. 

Ms Moses arranged the sheet and blanket so that I was fully covered except for the bandage on my stomach. Laura waited for that before stepping forward. A nurse came in with a tray of fresh bandages; she lowered the bed rails and the top half of the mattress so I was lying flat. 

“As you can’t see—no, don’t try, please—Inspector, I’ll describe what I did and what I see here. Fortunately, the scissors were closed into one blade rather than two when you were attacked so only one wound. The blade did puncture superficial and deeper layers of fascia—connective tissue—as well as layers of muscle and through the peritoneum and it sliced into most medial 7 centimeters of the liver. We’ll have to watch for infection, but the IV antibiotics should prevent that. We’ll send you home with oral meds to continue.   
“Hit the pain pump if you need to, Inspector. I’m removing the bandage and will be doing a bit of poking about,” she added. Laura gave me her hand after I tapped the pump release.

“Ok, the incision looks nice and clean, no sign of infection. Sorry,” she said, as she saw me grimace and grunt a bit when she hit a particularly tender spot. Laura rubbed my hand with her free one. I closed my eyes and tried to remember to breathe. 

Tried to think of Laura touching me in much nicer circumstances…and felt my nipples pebble hard under the flimsy hospital gown. I opened my eyes and saw Laura had indeed noticed—her eyes were fixed on my breasts til she saw me watching her and then she looked down and blushed. 

“Ok, done. Gayle, please re-bandage Inspector Raymond,” Ms Moses said to the nurse. The surgeon flipped off her gloves and tossed them in the bio-waste bin. “I will discharge you today. You’ll need to stay home for a week, be off work for at least 4, given the nature of your job. You won’t be chasing down criminals any time soon. Any questions?” 

I shook my head, looked at Laura with a grin who returned it and told Ms Moses that she’d be happy to provide post-operative care either at her home or mine, my preference. I thanked the surgeon with a hand shake and expressed my gratitude, and she left. Gayle cleaned the dried blood around the wound, patted it dry and replaced the bandaging. She explained that I’d need to have the sutures removed in 7 to 10 days by a physician and she glanced over at Laura who nodded while still apparently engrossed in staring at my midsection. Cheeky woman. 

“You listening, Dr H,” I asked playfully, causing Laura to look up at my face. Her face registered desire as well as embarrassment at being caught. 

“Yup, I think I can handle that…if you can,” Laura said, giving as good as she got. My turn to look away. I suddenly realized that in rebandaging the incision, about an inch above my navel, the draping had moved down, exposing the upper half of my mons. Laura was ogling the trimmed wiry hair of my---

“Right, that’s you sorted,” Gayle interrupted my thoughts and Laura’s viewing pleasure by pulling the gown back in place and the sheet and blanket back up to my chest. “You up for a light breakfast, Ms Raymond? Toast with butter and jam and tea? Lovely, I’ll get the café on it for you.” 

Laura helped me sit back up again. We both cleared our throats and she took another sip of her tea. She motioned to offer me some. When she saw my smile, she finished the cooled tea in the cup and poured me a fresh hot cup and helped bring it to my lips. We both felt the electricity in the air when our fingers overlapped briefly. 

“So, uhm, I can bring you home…unless you had other arrangements with Hal or someone. I’m guessing you’d rather be at your own home, but you’d also be welcome to start recovering at mine. Yours?” I nodded. 

“Hal and I haven’t discussed it. And he needs to be there for Becca since Lulu’s still away,” I noted. “Mine, if you don’t mind,” I said. “All one level. But…well, would you either come visit or stay with me? Would you feel comfortable doing either?” Please say yes to the latter, I prayed to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely comments. It's wonderful to know that this piece is a small part of helping you cope with the COV-19 isolation. There're def more chapters ahead as Jill recovers...and a warning/headup (depending on your perspective, no judgment): there'll be more "explicit" chapters ahead. :-)


	35. Verbena

I thought over Jill’s question for a moment. I could fully comprehend why she’d want to recuperate in her own home and was thrilled that she wanted me to join her. I had leave coming to me and no pressing deadlines at the mortuary. Was this moving too quickly? Or…

Jill saw the hesitation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” she said ruefully. She ducked her head, studied the back of her left hand, where a bruise had begun to form due to the IV line. 

“Hey,” I said, gently tipping her chin up so we could see eye to eye. “I’m not saying no. But you’re the one recovering from the trauma of being stabbed in the line of duty and the resulting surgery. Are you sure you want to share your home with someone under these circumstances? Or, put another way, if you feel a need for solitude and/or privacy, are you willing to tell me so?” 

Jill considered my questions. She took my hands in both of hers, softly rubbing the skin with her thumb. “Let me answer the latter first. I am a private person, used to being alone. My home is my oasis, as it were. I have a sense you feel the same about your home.” She tightened her grip when she saw me open my mouth to jump in. “That said, that feeling—of comfort, coziness, being able to utterly be myself—is no less when you’re there. If anything, and this surprises me, those feelings are enhanced by your presence. I always feel I can by myself with you. I have from the beginning. So yes, if I felt anything less than that, I might not have made the offer and I would feel comfortable asking you to leave. Or, put more nicely, to leave for a little while. 

“How do you feel about sharing my bed, Laura? Would you feel comfortable doing that? To be clear, I’m not asking about sex or lovemaking here. That’s pretty much out of the question right now, given…” Jill gave a nod toward her middle. “I would welcome a chance to be with you, but how do you feel?” 

I smiled at her consideration and forthrightness. “I would like to—ok, more than like to—but if we find it doesn’t work for either of us, I’ll simply either sleep on the sofa or go home at night.And if you need space, just say so. I won’t take offense. Deal?” 

“Deal!” Jill exclaimed and gifted me with one of those puppy dog grins. We hugged, mindful of her incision. Oh, how good it felt to have her arms wrapped around me again and to have her in mine! 

Gayle returned then, smiling when she saw us and apologizing for the interruption. She was there to remove the IV cannula, take away the pain pump and give Jill a pain med injection. “Sorry, luv,” Gayle said, “This one has to go in your bottom. Needs a meaty area, this one does.” 

Jill hrmphed and winced a bit as she turned onto her side. I afforded her some privacy by stepping out. I found myself standing by the nurses’ station. A younger nurse sat behind the computer. She looked up and smiled when she recognized me. We chatted for a moment and I asked that she thank the nurses who tended Jill over the past day. 

“I’ll be happy to do so. I know she’s the one who distributes those dear little bears that some old granny makes. My niece got one when she witnessed a serious car accident. She’s 14 now and wants to be a cop now, all cuz of that bear and how nice the constables were to her,” she explained. “DI Raymond’s a pretty special lady.” 

“You’re talking to the president of her fan club,” I said, smiling. “She’ll be chuffed to hear that story if it’s ok to pass it on to her.” She nodded happily. 

Just then, we heard a shouted “Bloody hell, Gayle!” and saw Gayle leave Jill’s room, smirking, carrying a needle that looked large enough to tranquilize an elephant. The young nurse and I both giggled a bit. “Shots in the bum are the worse,” she acknowledged and waved good-bye as I walked back into Jill’s room. 

The patient looked like a grumpy blonde bear that had upended a beehive. She gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, hospital gown rucked up to mid-thigh on one leg and even higher on the other, cuddling her right hip with her hand. Her hair was standing up in places and she scowled. 

“Fuck,” she grumbled. 

I tried unsuccessfully to hide my quirked smile. “Oh, this is funny, is it? I thought I could count on at least some sympathy from you, Hobson,” she groused, but her tone was lighter.   
“Want me to kiss it and make it better, sweetheart?” I asked sweetly, starting to raise the gown higher on the offended limb. Good Lord, but her legs went on the days and days…

She gripped my hand, easing it away and pulling down her gown to a more proper position. “God, you’ll be the death of me yet,” she breathed. “Do I have to tie you up?” she asked but then realized what she’d said and covered her face with her hands and groaned. 

Turns out Detective Inspector Jill Raymond is quite adorably sexy when she blushes.


	36. Vanilla and Black Tea

Ah, crossing the threshold to my home had never felt so damned good. Especially with Laura by my side. The hospital gave me a set of scrubs and Laura topped them with a hoodie, my own clothes having been cut off me when I arrived in the Emergency Department so they could assess my injuries. 

The enormity of previous day’s hit me when I looked around my home and breathed in the lingering scent of fir incense. Although so grateful to be home, I suddenly felt exhausted and chilled to the bone. I’d been stabbed in the line of duty. Had undergone major surgery. We had solved a murder. The day before seemed like a world away from my sanctuary; I knew it was not. 

My legs threatened to give way and I leaned heavily against the door frame. Laura saw this and guided me to the sofa, whispering comforting words. She gently tucked me in, lit the gas fireplace, turned on the radiant heating for the floor and then walked to my bedroom. She returned with sweats, a favorite old Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt, knickers. She turned her back and strode to the kitchen to start the kettle for tea whilst I shucked the scrubs, pulled on the panties (grunting a bit as the fabric slid over the injection site on my left arse cheek and the incision felt doubled in half as I brought my knees up), sweat pants and t-shirt. 

A few moments later, after preparing the tea pot, she came back to the living room and helped tuck me back onto the Chesterfield with a thick fleece blanket she found in the antique steamer trunk on wheels that served as my coffee table. 

“Snug as a bug,” she said softly, kissing my hair. “Anything besides tea that you’d like in the moment?” 

I shook my head, burrowing into the warmth of the blanket. “Only you, sitting next to me,” I told her. 

Laura smiled. “Be over in a sec.” She walked over with plates, two mugs of strong, sugared tea and a bakery bag of goodies she’d bought on her way to the hospital that morning. I took the bag from her, suddenly hungrier than I realized. Freshly made donuts stuffed with crème and cloaked with icing. Grabbing one with pink icing, I bit into it and moaned. A pink smudge clung to the tip of my nose and a smear of crème smooshed out onto my cheek, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes with pleasure, nodding as I chewed the confection. The rush of sugar, just what I needed. It was why Alcoholics Anonymous meetings always had sweets and caffeine—when you’re dealing with something physically and emotionally traumatic, having crutches helps. 

“I thought they might be medicinal,” Laura said, bemused no doubt by my appearance. She handed me a napkin she’d stuffed in her pocket. “Doctor’s orders,” she added as she helped herself to a donut with chocolate icing. She pulled over a simple ladder-back chair, setting it down next to the sofa. I started to scoot over for her to join me, but she stopped me with a palm-out hand. 

“Not yet. You need the full space right now,” she said and then sighed as she took a bite of her treat. We polished off our donuts in short order, sipped our tea in companionable silence. I appreciated that she seemed to sense I needed the quiet acclimation. About halfway through my tea, fatigue got the upper hand and I snuggled down to stretch out fully on the sofa. 

“Jill, do you want to go to bed?” Laura inquired. 

“No…sleep here next to you,” I mumbled. I knew I sounded like a pouty, petulant 5-year-old but didn’t care. I cautiously turned onto my side. 

“Well then, you need to hold this,” she said wisely, handing me one of the long slim kilim pillows from the wingback chair. “It will offer some support for your tummy.” She leaned over, lightly kissed my head…

…when I awoke, Laura had turned on the living room lights and was knitting. Her navy reading glasses rested mid-way down her nose, her fingers deftly navigated a complex cable section of the sock in progress. The tip of her tongue peaked out between her lips as she concentrated. Dear God, she was beautiful. 

A month or so ago, we were only friends. While we hadn’t technically become lovers quite yet, I relished the thought of that next step being on the horizon. This felt so right. Being with Laura Hobson felt so easy, so unexpectedly effortless. 

I usually didn’t let people in. Christ, was that an understatement. Many thought they knew me, but they knew the surface layer. They didn’t know about my mother, the real reason I left Helen, the years I spent in therapy. They used words, I knew, like “stoic” and “ice maiden” to describe me. With Laura, the deeper layers were opening, like a flower finally being allowed brilliant summer sunlight after a dismal winter and drizzly spring. 

I thought back to my roller-coaster relationship with Helen; we’d often been at odds, seesawing back and forth through drying-out periods and binges, mania and depression. Laura seemed so even-tempered, emotionally mature. We had fun—a word I don’t think I ever associated with Helen Charleson or our relationship. Fiery, passionate, yes. But like being with one’s best friend? Never. Yet that’s how being with Laura Hobson felt. That and more, obviously. She was gorgeous in an understated, laid-back-weekend-morning way. A Sunday kind of love, as Etta James sung. I looked forward to waking up next to her—hearing sleepy little murmurs, seeing her blonde hair just-fucked messy, serving her coffee in bed--for a long time. 

“How ever did I get so lucky?” I marveled aloud, half to myself, half to the woman who had come to mean so much to me in such a short time frame.


	37. Black Pepper and Ozone

I looked up from my knitting, my fingertips automatically pressing down on the wool near the end of needles, a smile playing on my lips. 

“There you are. Did you have a good nap?” I asked Jill. She eased herself into a more upright position, rubbed her eyes and then held out a hand to me. 

“Mmm. It all caught up with me,” Jill admitted, stretching. A deep yawn ended with a shudder and a sigh. “I know it will again as I heal and process what happened. Thank you for being here, Laura. It—you—being here means the world to me.” She squeezed my hand. I could see the slight bruising on the top side of her hand, where the IV line had been. I kissed it gently, more intention than pressure. 

“It’s my pleasure,” I spoke from the heart. 

Jill stood, testing out her legs. She nodded toward the bathroom. When she padded back into the living room, she wrapped her arms around me from behind, placing her cheek against the side of my head. “Hmm, you smell good,” she murmured, nuzzling into my nape, her breath warm against my right ear. Shivers shot down my spine. “I’d like to, um, do more, but I have a feeling I have a greater need for a pain tablet right now. The incision just woke up.” 

She stood, putting a hand against her middle, a crease of discomfort on her brow. She walked to the kitchen where I’d deposited the bottles of pain medication and antibiotics. I asked if she wanted me to get it for me, but she assured me she could manage. 

“Don’t forget to take that with some food,” I called over to her. There’s some fresh bread there too.” She nodded, sliding a slice of it out of the bag and spreading a thin coating of butter on one side. 

“Yes, Mum,” she said with a tight smile. She chewed the bread and took the capsules with a tip of her head. “And I don’t have any homework so can I watch ‘Top of the Pops’?” 

Looking back, I knew Jill hadn’t meant anything nasty by her quips. They may have held an edge due to the pain she was in. I knew surgical incisions could suddenly throb. But, in the moment, my hackles stood up. 

“No need for sarcasm,” I snapped. 

“I-what---” she began. Jill’s eyes registered surprise on top of the pain I could see in them. 

“And don’t ever fucking call me ‘Mum’,” I growled. I saw red. I quickly shoved the knitting in my bag and pulled on my jacket from the hook by the door. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” I shot at her before practically flying out of the house. The only thing missing was a broomstick on which to fly, I realized later. 

****  
I stood braced against the kitchen island, listening to the sound of Laura’s car peel down the driveway, scattering bits of gravel like a cat spitting. Bloody hell. What just happened? 

I picked up my iPhone, saw some messages from Kit and a few others, clicked past them to choose Laura’s number. It rang and rang before voice mail kicked on. I hung up. Dialed again, got the same result. This time I left a message asking her to please come back or at least call me back so we could talk.

My abdomen pulsed and ached as I waited for the pain killer to do its job. I curled up on the sofa, hugging my middle, wondering what the hell I’d said to trigger such a fierce response from Laura. This was a side of her I’d never seen, never heard of anyone seeing in the usually pleasant woman I was falling for. 

After another quarter of an hour, the pain eased. I would have to get ahead of it for the next few days. Laura probably would have told me that had she stayed. I listened to the messages, texted back a few people, thanking them for their concern, indicating I didn’t need anything. But there was something I needed. Or someone, I thought, as the drowsiness of the medication pulled me back down on the sofa. 

The knocking woke me about two hours later. “Coming,” I managed through my medically dried mouth. I took a sip of cold tea. Better than nothing. Got up, hearing the heavy rain on the windows and roof, and answered the door. 

Laura. Soaked to the skin. Rain mixing with the tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Come in, please,” I urged. She entered, stood dripping on the small rug by the door and sobbing. I led her to the bathroom, murmuring words of comfort. Turned on the towel warmed, turned up the radiant heating and helped her out of her jacket. 

She seemed weighted down by emotion and exhaustion. As she made no effort to continue getting undressed, I helped her slip off her trainers and jeans. Then her overshirt. The t-shirt under it was damp but not soaked through. As I started to lift up its bottom edge, Laura seemed to snap out of the daze she’d been in since coming back. 

“Oh, um, here, I can help,” she said weakly. Together, we tugged off her shirt. 

“Shower or bath,” I asked her. She nodded toward the shower, and I turned it on, tested it. When the temperature seemed just right, I told her I’d be right back with some fresh sweats for her. I came back and was about to slide them onto the chair by the door when I heard her voice from inside the shower. 

“Jill, would you stay…please,” her tone stronger than even a few minutes before. “I’d like the company.” I tried not to look as I turned the chair sideways to give her a little privacy but caught a glimpse of her bottom, firm and nicely rounded, before casting my eyes downward. A minute or two later, she turned off the water and I handed her a nice, warm bath sheet, still averting my eyes. Although I know I’d seen nearly as much of her that day in the mortuary locker room, the circumstances were entirely different. I could see she was very vulnerable and felt I should be as protective of that as I could. 

I could hear her towel off and dress in the clothing I’d provided. Then she walked over and put her hand on my shoulder. “Can we go in the living room and talk?” I nodded and took her hand, feeling the shower-warmed temperature of her skin. 

We both sat on the sofa and I draped the big fleece over us. I offered her a glass of whisky, which she accepted, “No, I’ll get it,” she said. Once cuddled up again, she took a slow sip, closed her eyes as it sped warm courage down her throat. “I owe you an apology and an explanation,” Laura said softly, reaching for my hand.


	38. Ginger and Patchouli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Laura's past.

Jill took my hand and brought it to her lips. “You don’t owe me anything, but I would like to know whether I said something…” she stalled. 

“You did nothing wrong, Jill. You were kidding with me. I took it badly. That’s on me, not you. And I am sorry for storming out and not responding to your message. I know you were concerned. I just needed to be alone, have a good cry…feel the rain pounding down on me,” I said. “I walked along the canal for a bit, got myself sorted and came back here.” 

Jill nodded. “You’re a good listener, aren’t you,” I said and then cringed. “Wow, Hobson, way to stay the obvious,” I noted. 

“It’s how I catch the bad guys,” she said, smiling. “Though you’re not one of them. Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?” I smiled at that, the first time I could recall her using a term of endearment. I got the sense that wasn’t something Jill Raymond did lightly, and that warmed my heart and nudged me forward. 

“I’ve told you my parents are still alive and living not too far away. What I didn’t mention was that I have very little contact with them. Some with my father. None with my mother,” I began. 

I explained that my mother, Hazel, had a malignant narcissist personality. She rained toxicity over my childhood and adulthood, poisoning my self-esteem until it’d nearly choked to death. Grammar school encounters with some of my crueler classmates did a number on me. Early-adult experiences with female managers reinforced that women can be nastier to other women than their male counterparts. Hazel Drake Hobson planted the toxic seed in my mind that women couldn’t be trusted—and few women since her had proven the exception. Jean Innocent was one; Therese Carroll, albeit from a distance, was another. 

But, outside of work, my adult friendships with women were limited to a handful of females, and even those I tended to keep at arm’s length. 

No one can strike a painful, damaging blow when you’re out of reach. “If I’m out of reach,” I brought it into the first person for Jill. I smiled wistfully. “And then you came into my life, with your lime-green Converse, your bears and delicious coffee…and more. I questioned you at first, you’ll remember,”—Jill nodded, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips, but still said nothing—"but the more time we spent together, the more my defenses fell. Looking back, I realized today that I still hadn’t shared much of my life with you, my background. I think I wanted to guard you from its ugliness—and…not be judged for my lack of a relationship with Hazel. Especially when I learned that your own mother had died so young.” 

Jill tilted her head. “Oh,” I told her, sadness and cynicism tasting bitter on my tongue, “you’d be amazed at how other women will judge you on that. ‘But she’s your mother. How could you? Don’t do anything you’ll regret,’ they’ll say, these women with seemingly picture-perfect mum-and-daughter relationships. They could never in a million years believe a woman would treat her child as mine had me. So I learned with whom I could share this and whom I couldn’t.” 

I wiped angry tears with the back of the hand not holding Jill’s. “Becoming friends with you…has changed my world, my life. You’ve never shown my anything but kindness. You’ve never cut me down to build yourself up. When you told me that you were the person who made the bears, I didn’t get angry because you hadn’t told me—I understood. It’s bloody hard to share parts of yourself. 

“And every time I saw you, I felt happy. I felt a chink of my armor fall away. And then I started having feelings for you. Emotionally, and also physically. And I rode them like a wave.  
“Until today,” I said, stopping to fortify myself with another sip of single-malt. “It was a perfect storm: you being stabbed, worrying about you, realizing how deeply I care for you, your comment—totally innocent, I realize now—and a call from my father this morning while I was still at home saying my mother has had a serious stroke.” 

Jill opened her mouth to offer verbal sympathy but closed it again. Instead, she took the hand that had held mine and placed it around my shoulders, squeezing just the right amount. “So I bolted. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You didn’t deserve that. And you do deserve an explanation, so there it is. If…if this knowledge means you don’t want to continue what we have, I’ll understand.” 

There, I thought, I’ve said it. I took another sip, downing the remainder of the amber fire, toasting its help in speaking my truth to this remarkable woman who meant the world to me. The ball was in her court now.


	39. Oolong and Jasmine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn a bit more about Jill. (Not to worry, dear readers, the shower of angst will shortly give way to more sunshine, as it were.)

I stirred, cleared my throat (still a touch raw from the anesthesia tube, I realized)) and reached up to pull Laura’s head onto my shoulder. “Oh Laura. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me this. I don’t judge you—how could I? God knows, I’m hardly perfect. And I’m not looking for perfection or anything close to that. Only someone who will be there for me and allow me to be there for her.” 

Laura burst into tears and I slowly tightened my grip on her, stroked her hair, kissed it. I held her, this strong, beautiful, fierce and independent woman who had pushed her own trauma aside to be with me that morning. 

Several minutes passed. Laura accepted the napkin I handed her, a clean one left over from our donut lunch, and I heard one of our stomachs growl. “Hmm,” I commented. “We should eat something before my tummy begins its whale-mating overture.” 

Laura looked up at me and began to laugh, a wonderful sound from the depth of her soul. I began to laugh, er, honk, too, which only made her laugh harder. 

“Ow, right, that’s enough for me,” I said, holding my stomach. “I can feel every muscle they stitched back together.” 

“NOW may I kiss something and make it better?” Laura asked, wiping the last of the tears from her face. “Through the bandage, of course.” 

“Yup. Thought I’d never get that rain check filled,” I said softly. I pulled up my sweatshirt, exposing my midsection, the pure white of the bandage and the pale skin on either side of it. Laura got off the sofa, pushed the trunk out of the way and knelt before me. With the gentlest touch, she placed her lips against the bandage and then on the skin above it. As she did so, her hair tickled my breasts and I couldn’t suppress a moan. 

“Oh no, did I hurt—” and then she saw the hazy look in my eyes, my open mouth and knew it wasn’t pain I’d felt. 

“Now who’s easy,” she remarked, and I was thrilled to hear the huskiness of her voice and see the cheeky gleam in those blue eyes. 

“Never said I wasn’t,” I breathed and quickly pulled down my shirt. Laura quickly rise to her feet and walked to the kitchen to see what I had in the way of food. Not much, she determined. 

“Feel like some Won Ton soup? I know a great Chinese place that delivers,” she asked, reaching for her phone. 

“Maybe some shrimp lo mein too,” I added. I usually ordered Chao Mei Fun (also known as Singapore rice noodles) but didn’t think my stomach could handle the hot curried dish.   
Laura tapped her phone, placing the order. “They’ll be here in about 30 minutes,” she noted. She poured us each a glass of water from the filtered canister I kept in the fridge. 

“Laura,” I started, my fingers reaching for hers. “Can we talk a bit more?” She nodded but I could feel her body tense and see her eyes reflect fear. “I’d like to share some of my background with you so you know why or how I comprehend what you told me.” 

“Ok,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper of uncertainty and apprehension. I got why. We sat down on the sofa, my back resting on one quilted armrest, hers on the other, our feet snuggled together in the middle. I drew the fleece over us again. 

“It’s true that my mother died when I was young,” I started. “What I hadn’t yet shared with you was how or why she died.” 

“A car accident, you said. Was that not true?” she asked, and I could see the hypervigilance many young emotional abuse victims carry in her guarded body language. 

“That was true. What I hadn’t mentioned was that the accident was a single-vehicle RTC. Mum was the lone occupant of the car when it veered off the road and rammed head-on into a huge old oak tree just a mile down the road. We heard the crash, Daddy and I, we realized later but hadn’t made the connection at the time. She’d left hours earlier, not telling Dad where she was going, so we didn’t have any idea that the crash was hers.” I paused, the memories of that summer day returning as if I’d switched on the TV to a show already in progress. 

“Oh how awful,” Laura said, stretching forward to put a kind hand on my leg. 

“My mum had driven drunk that day. At least none of us were in the car with her,” I continued. “You see, she was an alcoholic. Dad had tried to get her help; her parents, my grandparents, had tried. But no one had succeeded. Apparently, she had been a party girl—a debutante too—but her drinking had only become worse after I was born and she experienced severe postnatal depression,” I said, looking down at my hands. Hands that looked a lot like hers, judging from old photos I’d seen in Grandmama’s albums. Dad didn’t keep too many photos around from their married life. Too painful, I guess. 

“I’m so sorry, Jill,” Laura said. She scooted forward closer to me on the sofa, cupped my cheek in her hand. 

“Thank you. But while I don’t have first-hand experience growing up with a mum, let alone one like yours, Becca’s maternal grandmother—Lulu’s mum—sounds very much like your mother. She’ll cut her daughter down in a heartbeat if she thinks it will gain her sympathy or make her shine at the top of the tree, she’s pulled some nasty stunts on Lulu over the years, which I won’t go into now because they’re personal to her. Perhaps one reason we became such good friends at boarding school: we both knew what it was like to grow up without a mother. I, at least, had my two aunts, who tried their best. But there is something special about having a loving, nurturing relationship with the woman who gave life to you. I see that with Lulu and Becca. Lulu is an exceptional mum, I’m so proud of her and chuffed for Becca.” 

“Becca is a lovely, self-assured young woman—compassionate, strong, caring,” Laura noted. “She is a credit to the love you’ve all given her, but I do know what you mean about a mother’s influence.” 

“May I ask: Have you decided about whether to see your mother?” I broached the subject as gently as I could. 

Laura shrugged, laced her hands over her tented knees. “I don’t know. I’m inclined not to. I’ve said anything I need or want to say to her. If I go, it would be to support my father. He’s not a bad person—he’s a wonderful doctor—only one who never could stand up to her on my behalf.” 

Before I could respond, the delivery man knocked at the door. I tried to help Laura put out the bowls and plates but she shooed me back onto the sofa. “You are not supposed to be lifting anything more than a cuppa, Raymond.” 

The chicken-based soup was exactly what I needed. However, after half a bowl, I was full and ready for another nap. This time, Dr Hobson insisted, as she put it, that I go to bed. When I protested that the sheets weren’t fresh, she had me show her where I kept the clean ones and made the bed while I used the bathroom. While I usually slept in only knickers, I donned a huge t-shirt left over from some Oxford police event (the only size available was XXXL advertising some “fun run”) in deference to the bandage and Laura. She found herself an old XL tee of mine that swam on her. 

As it turned out, we were already used to sleeping on each other’s opposite side of the bed—me on the left, Laura on the right. 

The long day had caught up with me and I was out like a light, cuddled up against Laura’s side as she sat up against propped pillows and read. Her left hand played with my hair, one of my favorite non-sexual feelings in the world. 

When the pain woke me a few hours later, Laura was softly snoring, cuddled on her left side. How could anyone, let alone her mother, not love and nurture her, this accomplished, beautiful soul who looked like a slim blonde angel? I tried to ease myself out of bed but couldn’t bite down enough on a groan that escaped my lips and woke her. She was up like a shot, her toned legs trotting to retrieve the medication and a glass of water from the bathroom. 

I fell asleep with her arms around me and drowsily noted a new favorite sleeping position.


	40. Chapter 40

The next several days were a blur. I napped when my healing body directed me, ate healthy foods, read a bit, sewed a bit and called into a conference call with Kit Marsh and Jean Innocent regarding the Beaumont case. Sheila Delby was charged with Lindsay’s murder and the attack on Ellie Goldschmidt. Her daughter, Caroline, had no knowledge of her mother’s lawlessness and was horrified by her actions. I found out a few years later that Ellie and Caroline had managed to stay together and were married.) Therese and Chelsea reached out to thank me and the team. And I texted Chelsea later to ask whether she’d take on a small commission for me. She happily agreed. 

Laura came over when she could, at least once a day, usually sleeping over. I loved falling sleep next to her and waking to her, thick hair wild, t-shirt rucked up to reveal colorful knickers and, occasionally, a flash of firm breast. Gentle, tender kisses woke me in the morning, sent me off to sleep at night.

By the Friday night six days after surgery, I was no longer using pain medicine and sleeping soundly through the night. 

And feeling a bit frisky. I knew Laura could finally remove the bandaging entirely that evening and I could take a full shower rather than the washcloth-in-the-sink and hair-wash-over-the-shower-hose I’d managed. I made sure to take a nap early Friday afternoon so I’d be fresh and wide awake when she came in around 6. She was bringing takeaway steak sandwiches from Ippolittos in honor of what we referred to as our “first non-date date”. 

Before the nap, I lay down in only a long t-shirt. The meds, anesthesia and simply recuperation had suppressed my libido or I doubt I could have made it through one night, let alone several, without touching Laura Hobson. 

As I tried to nap, images of Laura kept pushing the sweet-dreams sheep out of the way, my clit by then as wide awake as my very active imagination. Laura in the locker room, her nipples hard and proud. Laura kissing me for the first time on the lips, that night only a week or so ago. 

My fingers dipped inside my shirt to fan across my breasts, causing my sensitive nipples to stiffen and tendrils of arousal to swirl down to my groin. A rush of moisture coated my eager fingers when they ventured into my boy shorts. 

How would Laura look, sound, taste, smell? Would she be passive, not having made love with a woman before? Assertive, knowing what she wanted or wanted to try? 

My right-hand fingers rubbed against my clitoral hood, whilst the left hand toyed with and teased my breasts. I imagined they were Laura’s somewhat larger breasts and moaned as I pictured my tongue flicking over hardened nipples, circling areolae, suckling…Mindful of my incision, I had to remain relatively still, letting my fingers do all the work with little help from my hips or back. Everything worked fine…more than fine, I found out. 

Within minutes, I surged toward a powerful climax, Laura’s name on my lips as I shuddered and groaned. And within seconds after that, I fell into a restful, relaxing sleep.


	41. Oak Moss and Sea Spray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sandwiches are the only hot things in this episode. Your patience is rewarded.  
> This chapter contains explicit F/F content.

“Laura!” Kathy Ippolitto greeted me with a big smile and a familial hug. The restaurant was slammed that Friday night but Kathy came out from behind the counter to personally welcome me. Both Jill and I had ensured our offices ordered from Ippolittos, which serves us very well with our respective teams. It warmed my heart to see this family thrive. 

We chatted for a few moments while they finished packing my order. She asked after Jill, “quite the hero cop you got there,” she said. 

“She’s very special,” I said with a smile that matched hers. 

“I snuck in a couple desserts for you. Homemade this afternoon right here,” she whispered with a wink as she handed me the toasty, fragrant box of sandwiches and fries. We said our good-byes and I drove to Jill’s. 

A month ago, I would have bristled at the assumption that we were a couple; now my heart leapt for joy, particularly hearing the acceptance in Kathy’s voice. I needed extra caffeine to focus on my work that day, a fact not lost on Leo, who kindly brought me back a double-shot caramel latte on his way back from a quick lunch with Frank. 

“Inspector Raymond’s on the mend, I take it?” he asked with a cheery smile. “Got any big plans for this weekend?” 

“Let’s just say you and I are now ‘family’, Mr Merton,” I noted before waving him out of my office so I could try to concentrate on a PM report due before I left work. 

Driving the now-familiar route to Jill’s home, I looked at my hands on the 10-and-2 positions and wondered what they would be doing an hour or two from then. Carding through Jill’s blonde hair? Cupping those perfect handfuls of breasts? Kneading those gorgeous buttocks? 

“Straight, my arse, Laura. You want her more than you’ve ever, ever wanted a man,” I said aloud and grinned to myself as I turned down her street. 

Jill must have heard my car pull up the drive for she came out to welcome me. Barefoot as usual, she wore loose black joggers and a purple men’s v-neck sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbows; her reading glasses hung from the vee. She looked healthy, understated, and so bloody sexy. Hard to believe this was the same woman clad in a hospital gown with tubes for accessories a mere week ago. 

“Hello you,” she grinned, opening the car door for me. She leaned in and kissed me even before I could get the safety belt off. “I’ve missed you.” She stood to let me exit, but not before delivering an open-mouthed kiss that left me wondering whether my legs would support me. 

“I’ll have to bring Ippolittos home every time I come here,” I quipped. I opened the back door and pulled out the box, closed it again and we walked to the door. 

“The steak sandwiches are definitely the cherry on the top; you’re the cake,” she told me, ushering me in first. The curtains were drawn even though the spring sun had yet to set. Candle lights flickered throughout the living room and kitchen. Light piano music carried on the air scented by Jill’s now-familiar cologne. Oh my…

I managed to put the box on the kitchen counter, barely, when Jill pinned me to it and reinforced her welcome with several minutes of kisses. Her long fingers curling through my hair, her tongue greeting mine in a joyful dance…Dear God, I thought, and we were only apart for one day! Her lips blessed my neck, pausing by my ear. “How hungry are you, Doctor Hobson?” she breathed, and any hunger for food instantaneously turned into desire to get naked with her. 

Have I mentioned what a damned sexy voice Jill Raymond has? The crotch of my knickers already felt hot and damp. 

“Dinner can be re-heated. I’m hot now,” I said. I knew it didn’t make much sense, but I could barely string that sentence together. Jill smirked, loving the effect she was having on me. She kissed me again and again, one hand at the small of my back, stroking circles, the other over my shoulder. Then she drew back and grew serious, her eyes full of desire and hope. 

“I, um, may be a little limited in terms of flexibility and acrobatic dexterity at the moment, but will you let me make love to you as best I can tonight?” she asked, biting her own lower lip. 

I swallowed hard. “Y-yes,” I managed. “Please.” She smiled and took my hand and led me to the living room. I saw she had gathered several pillows near the Chesterfield, which was partly covered with a plush fleece cream-hued blanket I hadn’t seen before. She motioned for me to sit down on the sofa and sat beside me. 

“My God, Laura, have you any idea of how beautiful you are? What you do to me?” she said, and these weren’t questions but rather a two-sentence prologue for the evening.


	42. Sea Salt and Orchid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May I recommend listening to Ludovico Einaudi's "Peaceful Piano", "Nightbook" or Divenire" while reading this or for your own, ahem, bedroom experience?
> 
> This chapter contains explicit F/F content.

Laura stared into my eyes, her lids growing heavy as she looked down at my mouth and kissed me, as if my questions had been a call requiring a response. 

We both groaned, feeling the lightening-strike of our connection charge through our bodies. My hand drifted down to the buttons of her dress shirt, already open to the second button from the neck, affording me a tantalizing glimpse of those two beauty marks just above and to the middle of her left breast as well as a dusting of freckles, faded mementoes of summers past. 

Releasing the first button I encountered, I let my lips dance across the field of her upper chest, alighting like skipping stones on a pond. The back of my right hand joined in, brushing tenderly, trying to shower Laura with a variety of sensations. My breath followed as I blew lightly on the flushed skin and I was rewarded with a whimper and furrowed brow. 

Another button opened, then a third, exposing Laura’s pale blue bra and its firm contents. I licked my lips, gazed into her eyes, seeking permission to continue through that partially opened gateway. 

She sucked in her breath and nodded. I gently removed her shirt, draping it over the coffee table. Her eyes fluttered closed as she watched my fingers reach behind her and unhook the bra and my mouth nuzzle her freed breasts. I breathed in a hint of her cologne, which reminded me of sea spray, and moaned as my lips graced her left breast for the very first time. 

“My God, so beautiful,” I murmured, lost in adoration that I tried to convey through devotional kisses and delicate nips with my open mouth. 

“Jill…yes…” Laura replied. “I mean, yes, please don’t stop…” 

“Just getting started, darling,” I assured her as my tongue swirled around her rosy areola, my fingers playing with her other breast at the same time. Then, “Laura…look at me,” I requested, as I covered her nipple with my whole mouth and began to suck on it. Her whole body sagged as her arousal deepened then and her eyes lost their usual sharpness. My mouth found her other nipple and treated it to a thorough worshipping. 

“My dear, you have far too much clothing on still,” I told her. I helped her stand, kick off her work shoes, slip off her socks and trousers. Her knickers that evening matched her lovely bra, and I could see that the crotch of them was soaked with her need. My hands reached round to cup her womanly arse, pulling her toward me, hearing her gasp as her tummy docked up to my pants. I groaned as well, reveling in the feel of her near-naked body against my clothed body. 

“What-what about you?” she asked, her voice husky. 

“Ah, well, how about if I take off my joggers but leave the sweater on for now, seeing as I still have the bandage on?” I bargained. She accepted with a nod and began to tug at my hips to help rid me of them. 

“Easy,” I said, mindful of the incision. She winced and nodded, taking her hands back. I stepped out of them and tossed them aside. “Now where was I…Can you stand up still?” I asked. 

“Yes…for now,” Laura said. My lips returned to her body as if the skin was magnetized, touching down under her breasts, down her taut middle, around her navel. My heart and its desire to show Laura how I felt about her let me linger on her torso for several minutes, until the heat and scent of her arousal led me farther down still. 

I inhaled deeply, taking in her sweet, musky aroma, and pressed my cheek against her lower belly. Her knees started to buckle, and I told her to lean against me while I gathered a couple of pillows closer. One long slim one I placed against the front of the sofa so I could kneel on it. While she was still holding onto me, I thumbed the trim at the top of her panties and slowly lowered them to the floor so she could step out of them.  
Laura suddenly sucked in a deep breath.


	43. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit F/F content and is revised...for your pleasure. ;-)

As Jill slid my knicker down, a frisson of fear shot up my spine. She felt it and looked up at me. “What is it?” she asked, the space between her eyebrows crinkling. Anxiety rendered me speechless. How could I explain…

“Are you worried about how you smell…may taste?” I could only nod, incredibly aroused but anxious nonetheless. For Christ’s sake, I was a doctor, I berated myself. Yes, but you’re also a woman experiencing sex with another woman for the first time. 

Jill cupped my face with her hands and smiled. “Oh love, you have nothing to worry about. You smell…intoxicating.” She paused, sensing I still wasn’t fully convinced.   
“Would you prefer me tonight to only use my fingers on you down here?” she asked, her voice tender and understanding. I nodded again, desire battling anxiety. Anxiety won that round. (But it would be its last hurrah.) 

“Of course,” Jill said, kissing my cheek chastely. “Will it be ok for you to lay down?” 

“Yes,” I muttered and scooted down unto the sofa after we placed the fleece on top of it. “Please,” I urged her to continue where she’d left off. I took her right hand and, my self-confidence returning, guided it between my legs. 

What a rush to feel her fingers touch me for the first time. Jill groaned as her palm held my mons and rubbed it in slow circles. Her fingers raked through my wiry bush, teasing out the last shivers of anxiety as they went. “Hmmm, so beautiful,” she assured me, her voice thick and her own arousal enhanced mine ten-fold. 

Jill slide her fingers down to the source of my wetness and gasped. “Laura, you’re so wet, so beautifully wet,” she marveled in a whisper. 

“Been like this for weeks when I think of you, of us together,” I admitted, whispering back. My hips bucked, seeking more, needing more of this woman’s touch.

She swept downward from my swollen, sensitive clit to my vagina, opening me slightly and then gliding back up. “Oh darling…” she murmured softly as her fingers stroked, each time reaching a bit farther into my vagina, slowly stretching me wider, making me wetter still. 

Her hand would still as her thumb flickered and swirled around my clit, sending sparks of desire throughout my body. She deftly rubbed either side of the hood, flirting with the sensitive little bundle of nerves itself but not focusing exclusively on it. I whimpered when she left it momentarily to expand my opening again then gave a soul-deep groan as she delicately kissed my stomach. 

My vaginal walls clinched, wanting, needing her to explore my depth still more. “Inside, can you go inside me, please Jill,” I managed to express through gritted teeth. She was driving me wild, for the fingers of her left hand continued to flicker and pinch my breasts as her right hand flirted with my soaking nether region. 

“With pleasure,” she responded, her voice huskier than ever. I could hear the smile on her face though my eyes were closed. She twirled her fingers through my wetness for a moment and then slowly, carefully entered me with two fingers that sunk deeply inside me. Oh God, it felt glorious. I knew she had to be careful, so I tried to do most of the heavy lifting, as it were, undulating my hips to rise up and meet her hand, like lovers hugging after an absence.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Laura?” she asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear me say it. 

“Oh God, yes Jill, fuck me,” I urged. My body, bathed in sweat, moved with Jill’s fingers in perfect sync. I gasped as she maneuvered her hand so her thumb flickered past my desperate clit with every thrust. The exquisite tension built and built, every sensation tingling through me, climbing, pulling me higher and…and then, up and over the side. “Jill-I…” I groaned and gripped her shoulders hard enough to leave bruises as I ride aftershocks the likes of which I’d never felt before. My body felt glued to the sofa even as I shook and bucked, groaned and gasped. 

She curled her fingers inside me, tucked up against the spongy tissue of the G-spot, to bring me to a second orgasm and I nearly screamed before bursting into tears. She very gently eased out of me and lay down beside me, holding me as I sobbed from the intensity of feeling. My tears soaked her sweater and upper chest as she smoothed the wet hair back from where it clung to my forehead. She kissed my face and head again and again, holding me as the climax stormed through my body yet again. 

“It’s just so…God, Jill,” I struggled to relay my emotions, the sensations…all of it. 

“I know,” she said. “Just feel right now…and know I love you.”


	44. Sugar and Lemon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature label applies...

Jill Raymond said she loved me.   
It took a few moments for this to sink in as my mind was still processing the nerve-endings-on-Cloud-9 feelings coursing through my body. I had experienced good, even great, orgasms before. But…no one had ever touched me with the self-knowledge of being a woman. Of knowing any nervousness I might be feeling. Of knowing precisely what a certain twirl of the tongue or stroke of a thumb would do to a breast or clit. 

She told me she loved me!

It finally registered when the tears dried and I could move my limbs again. Jill had stood up with a grunt, covered me with another blanket and brought me a glass of water. 

“Jill…you love me?” my mouth finally wet enough to speak. She sat on the edge of the sofa, gazing over at me, stroking my hair. 

“Yup,” her voice certain. “I don’t make love just to any forensic pathologist, you know.” She winked, her way of keeping the moment light while letting me know she was not expecting a parroted “I love you” back simply for the sake of it. “How ‘bout we repair to the bedroom. It’s a bit more comfy in there.” 

She helped me wrap the fleece around me and I could smell my arousal in the air as we strolled hand in hand into the dimmed bedroom. I remembered then, as I slid into the lush bed, that I was supposed to remove her bandage and check on her sutures. “Your incision…I’m due to check on it,” I sat up in bed as she removed her sweater and scooted into bed next to me. It happened too quickly for me to fully realize I’d just fully seen her breasts for the firs time. 

“Hmm, maybe later,” she said, her voice dreamy and bringing my desire back up a few notches. She curled onto her side facing me and shuffled over to place her head on my chest. She sighed contentedly, my life-size cuddly blonde bear. I started to kiss her, stroke her back and bum, but she tucked herself into me even more, muttering “Hmm, no, just want to cuddle right now, k?” 

How could I turn down that request? We both dozed a bit in our little cocoon, waking when our tummies grumbled for food. I let Jill sleep and went into the kitchen to heat up the sandwiches she’d put in the fridge earlier. I returned to bed with the box of desserts and one fork. 

Jill was just waking up, having moved to the warm spot where I’d been. Her back looked strong yet slim with birthmarks dotting the landscape like towns on a rural map. 

“C’mon, Cuddles, scoot back over and sit up. We’re going to share dessert first and raise your sugar level,” I coaxed, though she didn’t require much cajoling. Jill Raymond had, well has, a sweet tooth or two. 

I nearly dropped the box and did drop the fork onto the bedding when she turned, and I fully saw her breasts for the first time. Palm-size with pale pink areolas, they hung with very little sag. My mouth watered…and not just for the homemade cannolis inside the box (I’d peeked.). 

Jill saw where my attention was and smirked, clearly amused by my behavior. “My breasts are all yours and they aren’t not going anywhere, Hobson, but right now I do need sustenance!” she informed me, grabbing the box from me and using the quilt to cover her chest. 

She grinned and let loose a honk of laughter when she opened the lid and saw the cannolis. Hand-piped with ricotta cream and dotted old-school style with tiny bits of candied lemon peel, they were crisp and topped with a delicate dusting of confectioner’s sugar. 

“Tunnels of pastry filled with sweet creamy confection,” Jill noted. “Very appropriate for two women in bed, don’t you think?” 

“My God, you have such a dirty mind, Jill,” I teased her back, scooping some of the ricotta cream out of one cannoli with my pointer finger and slowing bringing it to my mouth. “Mmmm…” I sucked my fingertip to make sure I got all the filling. 

The expression on Jill Raymond’s face was priceless. Her mouth gaped, her eyes became heavy lidded, she licked her dry lips. I felt sorry for her and, gathering more of the cream on my finger, brought it to her mouth. She guided it in with her hand over mine, never taking her eyes off mine. She moaned as the filling reached her tongue and she sucked my whole finger into her mouth. 

“Such a competitive soul, aren’t you, DI Raymond?” I remarked, moving the box off her lap and locking my lips with hers.


	45. Embers and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More explicit F/F in this chapter.

Jill moaned as my lips drifted down to her chin, crested around her jaw line and circled the front of her earlobe. The tip of my tongue caressed the fleshy lobe and then my front teeth nibbled on it. Turned out she really, really loved her ears and neck being included in foreplay. 

Making love to a woman was new for me. However…I already had some idea of what Jill liked, from the neck up, as it were. I knew what turned me on. And I knew that I wanted to touch Jill and show her that I loved her too. Unlike earlier, this time desire bested any nervousness I may have felt. 

Mindful of her incision, I asked her to lay down and turn toward me so we could be face to face. Wedging pillows behind her, I arranged Jill so she would be supported and I could have full access to her body. 

“I want to take you in, all of you,” I told her, almost solemnly. She met my gaze, watching my face as my eyes traveled the topography of her toned and sinewy form. From long neck, chiseled clavicles, those plum-sized breasts, down to delicate navel, to the neatly trimmed thatch of pubic hair (the color of buckwheat honey), the shapely slim legs…pale freckles, brighter moles, and a few faded creases of scars…Jill Raymond was a contradiction—the doe-like slenderness of a young woman with the lived-in, wise body of the mature, middle-aged woman she was. 

I looked into her eyes, began traipsing my fingers over her body, reveling in the textures of skin and hair, the scents of her oak moss cologne and what I realized was her own musky arousal…

“You.are.so.beautiful. Exquisite…” I felt like an explorer who’d discovered a whole new species, a new world. Breath taken by the natural beauty before me. 

Jill’s own breath hitched as my fingertips circled her nipples. I placed my palm on one breast so I could feel the areola pucker taut. She raised her hips and bit her lower lip as my lips echoed my palm on her other breast. “Dear God, Laura…” she said, her voice carrying a depth and intensity I hadn’t heard before. 

I lost track of time for a while, making her breasts feel cherished. Her groans of need spurred me on. And then…and then I turned my attention to the treasures just below her mons. I gently reached down and, for the first time, experienced the heady feel of a woman’s desire. She was so wet. 

Jill moaned and spread her legs; she tented her right leg to grant me access and I slid down between her legs. I parted her lower lips to take a closer look, noting the deep pink of her swollen labia and clit, taking in the glistening evidence of her want. I dipped my fingertips in the wetness, like a parched traveler at a riverbank, and sampled it. Smokey with a hint of honey. 

“Oh Jill, you taste so good…” I whispered in awe. In a moment of shyness, Jill raised her forearm to cover her face. “No, please, let me look at you,” I pleaded, coaxing her arm down. When she opened her eyes, I saw a vulnerability and sweetness I hadn’t expected from this strong, stoic woman. Tears sprang to my eyes. How could I not be in love with her? 

“May I?” I asked softly, looking from her eyes to her sex and back. I licked my lips. 

Jill swallowed hard and nodded. Her eyes dark, hooded, thin lips parted. “Please…” 

I lowered myself fully between her legs, raised up on my elbows and tentatively flicked my tongue out to make contact. Oh God, I wanted more. Flattening my tongue, I lapped at her, from vagina to clit, and I’m not sure which of us groaned with need. I’ll admit, I was afraid to do more with her clit, knowing how sensitive my own could be, and I did not want to ruin the evening.

Instead, “Do you like it inside too?” I asked. A quick nod and a “Hmm.” So I cupped my first two right fingers and slowly plunged them into the moist heat of her vagina. Oh my, I thought, as her body responded as if pulled by a string, hips rising with each forward stroke, small grunts as I increased my force and rhythm. I stopped momentarily to adjust position and she moaned, her brow furrowed. 

“Oh God, Laura, please don’t stop. Fuck me,” she begged. And I nearly came myself from hearing her say that. 

Remembering what she had done to me, I curled my fingers up to end each stroke against her G-spot while my thumb kissed her clitoris. Jill panted, hips rocking, neck arching as her climax neared. “Oh Laura…Laura,” she cried out as she came, back rising off the pillows, hands gripping my arms. One of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. 

I vibrated my fingertips inside her, sending aftershocks sweeping through her body again and again. “I love you, Jill, God I love you,” I told her in an adoring whisper.


	46. Chamomile and Lemongrass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the time lag in getting new chapters posted. I have been hand-sewing masks for friends to wear amid the COV-19 crisis. Be well, and please, stay home.

Sometime later, we polished off the cannolis—using proper forks this time, both too sensitive and momentarily spent for anything else—and shared half a cheese steak sandwich. Delicately wiping her lips with a napkin, Laura glanced over at me. 

“I still need to address your sutures. Given that further, ahem, strenuous activity is over for the evening, is now a good time?” she asked. Her voice carried the professional air I knew though her face pinked up with a blush. 

“Hmm,” I responded, lifting the plate off my lap and handing it to her as she left the bed and began walking, naked but for an over-sized t-shirt she’d claimed. “As good as any.” I watched her slender but distinctly feminine hips sway as she exited the bedroom. A surge of heat flared in my groin but my mind knew my body couldn’t handle anything more for the time being. Settle down, you, I thought. 

Laura returned with her bag, parked it on the lower part of the bed, and motioned for me to scoot down to lie flat. Still naked, I shifted the bedding so I could slide down. Laura eased a pillow under my head, and lowered the quilt and top sheet to below my navel. Suddenly, despite all we’d done, I felt uncomfortably exposed; perhaps because Laura was then in physician mode and I was a patient. She sensed this, found my discarded jumper and laid it over my chest. 

“Thank you,” I murmured and then closed my eyes. Though watching all sorts of procedures done to living and deceased bodies never bothered me, I didn’t care to observe a pair of scissors up against the tender skin of my own stomach. 

After pulling on nitrile gloves, Laura cleaned off the scissors with an alcohol swab and then prodded the incision. “I’m just checking its degree of healing. Yup, fully closed, a very neat, clean wound too. Jacky Moses did an excellent job. Right, here we go,” she said. 

I felt the cool, sharp tip of the steel on my bare tummy. I sucked in a breath and held it. 

“Jill, remember to breath,” Laura advised with a smile in her voice. “There we go, coming out nice and clean, easy peasy,” she said. I grunted as I could feel one length of thread slide out, pinching slightly. 

Few more snip, snips and I heard a sharp intake of breath. I opened my eyes to see Laura staring at my belly with a look that was more personal than professional. Aha, I thought, and decided to tease her a bit by “accidentally” re-adjusting the bedding to just below the start of my pubic region.

I saw her eyes widen and her nostrils sniff. Then the flush that rose from her upper chest. 

“Uhm, well,” she said, quickly clearing her throat and blinking several times as if to shake off what she was seeing. She squeezed a dot of antibacterial ointment onto the tip of her index finger and smoothed it into the scar. She then gently covered it with fresh steri-stripes and snapped off her gloves. She re-covered my body, giving me a look of mock-exasperation. 

“You’re quite naughty, aren’t you,” she grumbled good-naturedly as she picked up all her supplies. 

“What are you going to do—” I started, but the sentence that began with a husky voice ended with an unexpected, mouth-gaping yawn. 

Laura laughed. “Put you to bed for now,” she said, affectionately ruffling my hair. She strolled into the bathroom with her bag. I heard her cleaning the instruments and binning the used materials. 

I cuddled back under the warm bedding, feeling loved, cared for, home in a way that was less about a place and more about sharing a life. By the time Laura returned, removed her shirt and snuggled up next to me, my eyes had shuttered and all I could mumble was a sleepy “Nite, Laura” as I held her close, nuzzling her hair. 

“Good night, you sweet, silly bear,” she whispered.


	47. Strawberry Jam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after...(More to follow...

I awoke to find a note from Jill on the bedside table: 

“Gone to get breakfast. BRB. Stay in bed. J xx” 

I smiled and wondered what she’d bring, my beautiful blonde hunter-gatherer. It was half past 8 on a sunny Saturday morning. I padded to the bathroom and as I returned to bed, I heard the front door open and close and Jill’s distinctive walk. She poked her head into the bedroom and, spotting me propped up on pillows, grinned. 

“Good morning, Gorgeous!” she exclaimed. She’d snuck out wearing joggers, a flannel shirt and those lime Converse trainers. Her hair was loose and a bit wind-swept, and as she bent down to hug me, I smelled the crisp freshness of the outside world in her hair. 

She sat down on the bed, facing me. “Mmm, I missed you,” Jill said, sweeping my hair back from my face. She kissed me softly and then more passionately when she felt my hands cup her head and pull her closer still. I was glad I’d brushed my teeth as her tongue sought to greet mine and I welcomed it. Oh God, I’d found a new addictive hobby: necking with DI Jill Raymond. Second only to making love to her. 

After several minutes and more than a few groans of desire, we slowly separated. Jill sat up again and studied my face. “Laura, how do you feel this morning?” she asked, carefully watching my face. “About…this, us, being with a woman?”

I saw concern and perhaps a little nervousness in her deep brown eyes and furrowed brow. Definitely a hint of trepidation, I knew, when I saw how she wrung her hands.   
How did I feel? Myriad images rushed through my mind: Jill’s voice crying out as she came, eyes shut tight, the absolute frisson of delightful amazement when I first smelled and then tasted her. The orgasms already beyond anything I’d experienced with male lovers in 30 or so years. More importantly, still, was how she made me feel—loved, cherished, appreciated.

“Jill, last night you gave me an incredible gift. The experience of being with a passionate, sensitive, damned sexy woman. Of making love to that woman and being made love to by that woman.” Jill ducked her head, her fringe falling in front of her eyes. 

I paused to take her hands in mine. “In case you’re worried I’m going to freak out and run for the hills, let me put that fear to rest right now. I meant it when I said I love you. And I mean it now when I say I’m not going anywhere.” I kissed her hands. 

Jill smiled widely, her eyes closing with joy. “I-I’m so glad,” she said, her tone rich. She reached out and stroked my cheek with her thumb. “I must admit, I did have a second or two of anxiety when I walked back up the drive til I saw your car was still parked there. I’d have felt bloody awful if you were uncomfortable and had felt the need to leave or decided what we did wasn’t for you.” 

I turned my head to capture her thumb with my mouth, drawing it in and slowly sucking it, running my tongue up and down it. Jill’s eyes darkened with arousal, her mouth opened and her head tilted back. She moaned. “Bloody hell, Laura,” she muttered. 

“So, as I said, not going anywhere,” I affirmed with a wink once I’d given her thumb back. “And besides, woman, you do owe me breakfast.” 

She honked, that delightful bark-bray of hers. With another quick kiss, she strode to the main room and I could hear various plates being gathered, coffee being ground and then the kettle whispering. After about 5 minutes, she returned with a butler’s tray laden with fresh baked croissants, butter, strawberry jam and a French press of our favorite coffee blend. 

“Why Detective Inspector Raymond,” I grinned. “You DO know how to show a girl a good time.”


	48. Cardamon and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More revelations, more explicit F/F activities.

“So I passed the ‘morning after’ test?” I asked Laura, keeping my tone light. Even though she told me she was staying, I suppose a little bit of insecurity just had to rear its ugly head. Though I had more experience being with a woman than Laura had, it wasn’t as if I dated casually or often. There’d been no one else in my life, let alone my bed, since Helen.

Laura stopped mid-pour and put down the French press. “Jill, you aced it! Now, may I pour you a cup too?” 

We settled down, drinking and eating in companionable silence but for a moan or two when a buttery chunk of croissant or a sip of coffee satisfied her palate or mine. I tried to figure out what was bringing out my anxiety and then it percolated to the surface with something Laura asked. 

“So, with your track record, intelligence and drive, I have to ask: why aren’t you a DCI or even Assistant Super by now?” Laura queried, chewing thoughtfully. 

Ah, I thought, that was it. I wasn’t so much anxious about Laura so much as nervous about having that conversation with her. I hadn’t yet discussed The Money Issue, as I thought of it. I suppose I had hesitated to tell Laura because, for one thing, our relationship had begun as a platonic friendship and two, I was a bit gun-shy after Helen Charleson’s reaction. I took a deep breath, slowly exhaled and faced Laura. 

“Jill? Have I hit a tender point?” Laura asked, her brow crinkled, voice concerned, when I didn’t answer straight away. 

“Uh, erm,” I started. “It’s not you. You did nothing wrong, and you asked a perfectly understandable question. 

“I told you about my father relinquishing his title. Well, his inheritance (even after death taxes, of course) when my granddad died was…not inconsiderable. He did sell the family estate when I was in my early 20s; it’s now a conference center, but he arranged to keep a small parcel and the home that had been the estate manager’s. That’s where he and my aunts live.” 

I paused to scoop jam onto a piece of croissant, more for something to do with my hands than to eat in the moment. “My brothers and I inherited a bit when Granddad died, which was held in trust. We each received our share at our 30th birthday. And I’d inherited a bit more from my mother’s parents when they passed several years ago. I’m not clever with money and, in my line of work, it’s wise that I don’t directly make investments. So Hal has handled my money for years. And I have a small stake in his firm too.” I explained how I bought this property, renovated it and so forth…

I glanced over at Laura when I heard her small gaspy yelp. “Good Lord, you’re a real-life Lord Peter Wimsey, aren’t you? You don’t need to work, do you?” Her face had gone alabaster, blue eyes widened. 

“Well, I don’t have the title…and I don’t play at detective,” I noted, lowering my head, feeling a bit defensive. 

“No, no you don’t! I’m sorry, I was so taken aback, that was the first image that came to mind. Please continue,” Laura said, placing a warm hand on my shoulder. 

“Laura, I didn’t have that much when I began as a constable. I lived within my means; honestly, except for this property, I still live within my DI salary for the most part. I have an account with a small percentage of my share in Renfrew-Raymond that I can draw from. So I don’t need the extra salary of a higher title. I love what I do—being about to directly work on cases that can make a positive difference in people’s lives, working for justice—and I’ve never been good at playing workplace politics, especially not at the level Jean Innocent has to. I’m rubbish at administrative work. On the other hand, I have an eye for detail, for seeing patterns, for doggedly following leads. And I really enjoy being able to mentor younger detectives, such as DC Marsh.

“I think I was feeling nervous this morning because I felt like a weight was hanging over me. When you asked me about promotion, I realized why. I don’t tend to share this information with colleagues. I mean, Jean knows. I suspect her bosses do too. But…and when I told Helen…” I stumbled a bit, then continued. “She expected me to play sugar daddy/mummy/something. It’s not that I mind sharing what I have, it’s…” I wasn’t quite sure how to say what came next without wounding a woman who had done nothing wrong. 

Luckily, Laura understood. “…It’s the assumption that you must…?” she filled in the gap perfectly. 

I nodded. “That’s right. It’s, er, rather awkward.” I looked down at my hands. Laura reached over and knelt next to me. She took my face in her hands. 

“You know, God, I hope you know, that I don’t feel that way. And just so we’re clear, Jean has never said a word to me about your finances. This goes no farther, ok?” she promised and sealed it with a kiss on the lips. “I’m not rolling in it, but I do okay, have savings and am happy to maintain separate finances, if and when we need to discuss this further.”

“C’mere you,” I urged her closer so that she was straddling my upper thighs. “Thank you for understanding and for not taking it the wrong way. I feel so much better with that out in the open…Now, have we finished breakfast? Because I think it’s high time we took a shower and got out of bed for the day…or at least the present.” 

Laura grinned, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “Take a shower? Together? I dunno, Raymond. Can I trust you?” 

“To do something…or not to do something?” I quirked an eyebrow at her as she slid off my lap and began walking toward the bathroom. She tugged off the t-shirt as she went, treating me to a picturesque view of her firm arse and legs. Just before she reached the sink, she turned and faced me. The Full Monty, uhm, Laura. Hair adorably mussed, small, firm breasts high and proud, taut belly and shaggy dark blonde bush…

“Look, Raymond, I know you’re recuperating but you seemed reasonably fit last night. Hop to it,” she teased and gave me a flirty wink before turning and continuing into the bathroom. 

Grateful to find my legs would indeed carry me into the bathroom, I obediently followed Laura. I waited until I’d entered the room and then striped off my flannel shirt. I started to pull down my shorts but Laura stopped me. 

“Oh no you don’t. That’s my job,” she said. I stood, arms at my side, legs slightly apart, back against the vanity as Laura half-knelt in front of me and slowly eased my knickers over my hips and down my legs. I stepped out of them and kicked them aside, resting a hand on her freckle-dusted shoulder for balance. A solemn expression firming her face, Laura nuzzled my brown pubic hair with her nose and lips. I heard and felt her inhale deeply. 

“Mmmm,” she whispered. “I can’t get enough of the smell of you.” She rubbed her mouth against me and planted several delicate kisses on my mons. I swallowed hard and white-knuckled the vanity. “Spread your legs a bit more,” she urged and slipped her fingers between my legs. I bit my lower lip and whimpered when I felt her fingertips brush from my vagina to my clit and her breath glided over me. 

“Oh, you are sooo wet. How can you be this wet already?” she asked, a playful tone skipping into her voice. 

“Well, for one thing, you just strut around naked in front of me,” I asserted, feeling my clit begin to pulse in time with my heartbeat. “Actions have consequences, right, Doctor?” 

***

Knowing I had this effect on Jill caused a surge of heat through my body. I stood up, feeling my own crotch grow slippery. Then Jill knelt in front of me. Turnabout being fair play in the best sense of the phrase. She kissed my belly button, letting her tongue paint a wet circle round it, before kissing her way down to my bush. Momentarily gazing into my eyes, she looked down at my mons and delicately licked her lips as her hands gently parted my thighs. I gripped her shoulders for support, my fingers gaining purchase on her upper back. 

Her tongue sought and found my clit, flicked out for a taste of the slickness she found. She moaned and buried her nose and mouth between my legs. Tiny mewling sounds followed, though whether they came from my mouth or hers, I couldn’t say. Deft and darting, slow and suckling, Jill’s tongue made love to my clit. Dear God…my breath quickened, my mouth dried up like a summer desert. Her long, slender hands cupped my ass, holding me against her. As my knees began to collapse, she somehow turned me so my back was against the vanity. 

“Can you manage a bit longer?” she murmured against my clit. 

“I’ll try,” I said honestly. A sheen of sweat covered my body. My areolae puckered almost painfully. My breath came in shallow pants. 

“That’s my girl,” she said, and I heard a combination of agreement and pride in her husky tone. She returned her attention to my now engorged clit. One moment, she would suck on it, the next she would back off and stroke it with the flat of her tongue. Building, backing off, building, backing off…building…my clit was the center of the universe, her skillful tongue the axis on which it spun. 

“Jill! Oh God…” the groan erupted from deep down in my throat as my clit seemed to ignite. I would not have been surprised to see actual sparks shooting from it like Roman candles. I collapsed into her arms and she eased me down, cradling me. I could taste myself on her lips when she kissed me. Jill dragged a warmed bath sheet off the towel warmer and covered us. She coaxed a few more shudders and moans from me. 

“Good morning, Doctor Hobson,” her voice rich enough to curl my toes again. “It seems I can’t get enough of you either.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit F/F activities ahead.

Jill’s voice itself could bring me to a skyrocketing orgasm, I thought. I had an out-of-town forensic pathology conference coming up in a few weeks so perhaps I could test my hypothesis then. 

“You know,” I said, “if you ever give up your day job, you could make a fortune doing phone porn.” 

A series of honks erupted close to my ear. “What, do I have a face for radio too?” she sputtered in mock-indignation. 

“Oh no, my love, your face is a masterpiece and your body…well…” I pulled away the towel and gave her a slow stroll with my eyes and then my lips found her mouth again. Jill did not object as I cupped her breasts and dreamily massaged them, nor as my tongue sought entry to her mouth. She scooted over to brace her back against the vanity and I eagerly followed. I loved her gasp as I rolled her left nipple between my index finger and thumb. 

“You like that?” I asked. I knew the answer but wanted to hear this strong, beautiful woman articulate it.

“Mmm,” she grunted. I changed it up, briskly rubbing my palm over the same area. Jill whimpered, squirmed a bit. Her eyes darkened. I was enjoying myself. 

“Tell me, do you prefer one over the other?” She nodded, licking suddenly parched lips. I pinched the tender raisin of flesh between my fingers. She winced and squeeze her legs together. She must be aching, I thought, satisfied my strategy was having favorable results. 

“Which one?” I prompted, switching between the two options, my lips against her ear. 

“Uhm, God, Laura…not fair,” Jill struggled to speak. I dropped my other hand to gently separate her legs and was rewarded with a needy groan of frustration. 

“You’ve stood before high court judges and given evidence in difficult cases, but you can’t tell me which of these you prefer?” 

“Well, no one was…” her voice raspy, “…doing.this.to.me.at.the.time,” she managed through gritted teeth, her upper chest and neck flushed. “Both. I don’t think I could choose,” she confessed. “Actually, when you did this,” she reached out, captured my right nipple between her first two fingers and lightly stroked her thumb over it. She smirked at my surprised gasp. “That was the best.” 

“And, of course, this…” she leaned forward and captured the same nipple with her teeth and flicked her tongue hard against it. “Well, that feels bloody amazing too.” Then I was the one clinching my legs closed. “What, cat got your tongue?” she delighted in my lack of articulation. 

I mimed waving a white flag. “Ok,” I squeaked out after a hard swallow. “Truce? Let me catch my breath?” I rubbed a hand over my face to reset my addled brain. 

“Right,” Jill nodded, regaining some measure of composure. “And you’ve never made love with a woman before?” Her voice oozed skepticism, her face took on the incredulous look I imagined made suspects lawyer up. 

“No, why?” I asked, perplexed. Was I doing something wrong? Had she only been kind before now? 

Jill smiled, moved forward so that our noses rubbed. Her voice tender yet nearly a groan. “Because, Laura, you turn me on like no one else ever has. You are an exceptional lover. You seem to know just how to touch me, kiss me, fuck me, and drive me wild.” 

“I-I just think about what I enjoy and see whether you do too,” I stammered, thrilled with her assessment. “But I’m still learning what you might like, how it might differ from my own likes and dislikes. I hope you’ll continue to tell me.” 

“I promise I will,” she said, her gaze settling on the wiry thatch of hair above my thighs. I looked down at hers, a neatly trimmed triangle a few shades darker than her eyebrows.   
“It’s a good thing I’m not wearing knickers,” I told her, making my voice as sultry as I could. “Because you’d have just soaked them through.” In case she needed empirical evidence, I dipped my fingers between my legs and then brought my fingers to her lips, the proof literally in hand. Jill captured my hand in hers, as if cupping a hand to block the wind from blowing out a flame and brought it to her mouth. We both moaned. 

“Now,” she said, rising to her feet and helping me to mine. “We should probably get in the shower once the water heats up. Can’t spend the entire day on the bathroom floor…” Jill turned on the faucet and a strong spray shot forth from the rain-shower head. Her back to me gave me another view of her exceptional arse. She glanced over to me, raised her eyebrows and then melted me with that happy puppy smile. As if I needed any encouragement.


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit F/F shower activities. Our girls clean up...

At first, we focused on getting clean, taking turns ducking our heads under the large raindrop showerhead. We each washed our hair and then Laura, with a twinkle in her blue eyes, offered to wash my back. 

Still a little protective of my abdomen, I took Laura up on her offer, biting back a whimper as her soapy fingers slid around to my torso to apply the fragrant lather to my sensitive breasts, skirting around my middle to fondle and wash my pubic region. I groaned with the twinned sensations of her pebbled nipples at my back and her fingers applying a sweet tender cleansing to my sex. I gasped and squirmed, inadvertently closing my legs to enhance the delicious friction. 

“Easy, sweetheart, I do need my hands for work and your thigh muscles are incredibly strong,” Laura softened the caution by mock-growling in my ear. 

“Maybe if I turned around…” I suggested, doing so. Now we were face to face, and our mouths found each other as if magnetized. Oh, the feel of our breasts docking together as the hot water sluiced over them. I took the oak moss goat’s milk soap from Laura’s hand and lathered up. “My turn,” my tone leaving no room for negotiation as my fingers coated the front of her body with rich aromatic suds. “Oh, Laura, you feel so damned good.” 

“So do you, Jill. And now I know why you always smell so wonderful,” she said, bringing her nose to my breasts and getting a dollop of suds on the tip of it. She giggled, I honked.   
Laura’s eyebrows rose.

“Let’s get you free of suds so I can properly do this.” She angled the shower head so she could rinse me off, running her deft hands over my arms, torso, lingering between my legs. I grunted as she grazed my clit. My groin muscles clinched. Dear God…

Then her mouth clasped my left breast, front teeth held it, tugged it, very lightly nibbled on it. She gave same wonderful treatment to my right breast. My nostrils flared and I gasped. Slowly, she pushed against me to back me onto the stone seat built into one wall of the shower enclosure. 

“Sit back, darling. It’s my turn to play ‘inspector’,” Laura murmured. She pulled a towel off the rack and knelt on it. “Part those gorgeous, long legs of yours for me. That’s it…” she encouraged, her voice authoritative and husky. My arms hung at my sides, head back against the tiled wall. My nipples missed her mouth as she further separated my thighs with the palms of her hands. 

I felt delightfully, if somewhat shyly, exposed. I wasn’t used to a lover who took charge, whose intellectual curiosity extended to the bedroom and beyond. Laura Hobson clearly had no qualms about exploring my body and discovering what she could do with it. She edged forward, peering at my nether region, through the trimmed thicket of wiry hair, parting the swollen lips. She “mmm’d” as she nuzzled, inhaled, reached out with her tongue to lave the inner lips. 

We both moaned as she caught the protruding tip of my clitoris with the tip of her tongue. She stopped, checked in with me and I nodded my consent. “Please.” 

Delicate strokes sent waves of arousal coursing through my body. Precise suckles melted my bones and sinew. “Oh Laura…yes.” 

Her mouth dove into the channel from which all the moisture flowed, hot like lava, slick like liquid silk. She took her sweet time, and bloody hell, was it exquisitely sweet. Laura let her lips, teeth (gently), tongue play, coax, tease, dance. Even the sensation of hot water cascading down my body dulled into textural white noise as her mouth, mind and heart made love to me as no one had before. She swept, cajoled, brought me to the edge, pulled me back, only to bring me closer each time. I writhed, breath gulped, panted, muscles tightening.

“I need…” I gasped. 

“What? Tell me what you need, Jill. I need to hear you tell me.” She whispered, her mouth not leaving its temporary home. 

“T-to come. I need to come,” I said, my voice strained by the tension building inside me, my fingers buried in her hair. 

“Mmm, thank you, darling,” she replied. Without missing a tongue stroke, she then slipped two fingers into my vagina, crooking them against my G-spot and tapping ever so gently.   
“Oh God…Laura…” my orgasm—fuck, was it only one?—flowed over me like white-capped ocean waves crashing onto a craggy coastline. Over and over, toes curling, head back as the shower sprayed over me, taut, home. And I felt something other than the usual glossy juice release from inside me. Thinner, its wetness combining with the water to tickle down my legs. 

“Oh my,” Laura said in amazed wonder as she felt it drip through her fingers as she eased them out. She rose from her knees to cradle my body to her torso, hugging me, my face gratefully buried between her breasts. After several moments, she reached over to turn off the faucet and slid out to grab warm towels for us. She wrapped one around herself, snuggled me in one, used a smaller one to towel try my hair and then hers. 

“That…fuck…” was all the eloquence I had to offer. 

“And that was the best compliment ever,” Laura Hobson said with a wicked, smug grin.


	51. Amber and Pineapple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura meets Jill's BFF and sister-in-law.

About 15 minutes later, we were dressed on comfy weekend wear—jeans and an oversized button-down shirt for me, loose joggers (owing to her still-tender tummy) and a long-sleeve t-shirt for Jill. I needed to go back to my place to check on Desmond, and, now that Jill had the all-clear to drive again, she planned to meet me there after some light household chores. 

However, as I was about to leave, Jill’s phone rang, that old-telephone ring she loved. “It’s Lulu,” she told me and then answered. “Well, hello there!” 

It seemed Hal was out of town on business; Lulu and Becca were on their way to the Carrolls’ wool shop to get the prolific Becca more supplies and could they come by afterward with pizzas and such? Jill explained that she and I were just discussing our plans for the rest of the day. Suddenly, Jill grinned. 

“I’m putting this on speaker phone,” she told me, walking over to embrace me from behind. 

“Hello, Laura! I’m Lulu. Been looking forward to meeting you. Becs and Hal tell me you walk on water. You must, if you’re taking such great care of my daft, curmudgeonly sister-in-law.” 

“Oi, Harriman!” Jill pretended to tell off her exuberant friend. 

“Ha! See what I mean. I hope you’re being well compensated for your efforts!” Lulu Harriman’s rich voice playfully teased me over the sound of the roadway as she drove. 

I blushed, though was grateful she couldn’t see it. “I feel, uh, ‘well compensated’,” I replied, keeping my answer vague in deference to Becca listening in on the call. 

“Brilliant! I’m sure we’re making a right hash of your plans, and I apologize. But I’d really like to meet the famed Dr Laura Hobson and thank her personally and the least I can do is bring supper. Made by someone with actual talent because, as Becs will confirm, you bloody well don’t want me near cooking appliances or unprepared food. Please say yes!” 

“Please?” piped up Becca. As if her charming, forthright mum hadn’t already won me over.

“Please?” Jill whispered in my ear, nearly buckling my knees and causing me to bite back a whimper. 

“Mmm, ok, ok! But remind me to call in sick if I ever have to go up against you in a courtroom, Ms Harriman!” I responded, adding my own bit of cheek, much to Jill’s delight. She compensated me on the spot with a nibble of my ear lobe. 

Lulu and Becca’s visit would actually dovetail in quite nicely with the errands I needed to run and then Jill’s coming back to mine later. After we’d rung off, Jill turned me in her arms so we were face to face. 

“Uhm, I know this was not how we planned for the day to go…” she started, somewhat apologetically. 

I gently held her upper arms. “I know, and that’s ok. We can still fit in all we need to—and I’ve been looking forward to meeting Lulu. Though, a bit nervous about it, too, if I’m completely honest.” Jill looked puzzled. 

“She’s your best friend. AND your sister-in-law. I’m not used to meeting dates’ families. I mean, you’re more than a ‘date’…much more, obviously, but…” I ground out, unable to prevent a twinge of insecurity creeping into my voice. 

Jill wrapped her arms around me and held me tight. “I understand. I’ve not met many girlfriends’ families either. One thing you should know about Lulu: she can play poker in the court room, as it were, but in her personal life, what you see is what you get. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, she has only my best interests at heart, and there’re no flies on her. She already adores you,” she told me. 

Then, she paused and added, “And I know I’m at risk for being catty, but if it makes you feel better, she never liked Helen, not from Day One. Forget about ‘walking on water’, she wanted to hold Helen under water,” Jill said, a tight smile appearing on her lips. 

“Ouch,” I winced. I could well imagine Lulu DeCourcy Harriman, QC, saying such a thing. Not out of professional competitiveness but out of personal loyalty to and sisterly love for Jill. 

“So, are you alright with their visit?” Jill asked, her arms releasing me a bit so she could look me in the eye. I smiled, ducked my head and nodded. 

“Looking forward to it now. Jill, thanks for reassuring me. This is all new to me—not only the ‘women’ thing but being in something more than a casual date-for-the-opera/no-commitment type of relationship.” 

“And look who you ended up with: someone her own best friend refers to as a ‘daft, curmudgeonly’ sort,” Jill snorted, which turned into a mini honk fest. 

“I’ll take my chances,” I answered, stretching up on tip toes to kiss her firmly on the mouth.   
***  
Lulu and Becca were just getting out of their Range Rover when I pulled up the drive. Becca grinned and waved to me excitedly; she had that lovable dorkiness so like her aunt when she was completely relaxed. Her mother, a petite brunette with shoulder-length hair and turquoise Buddy Holly glasses, gave a whoop of recognition as she opened the back hatch to reveal four boxes of pizza and a bag containing a few bottles of wine and a 2-liter of diet Coke. She called to her daughter to give her a hand, and Becca dutifully carried in the beverage bag. 

I quickly exited my car so I could help them. Lulu energetically strode right up to me and put out her right hand whilst putting the other just above my elbow. “So you’re the one responsible for Jill’s happiness! I like you already!” she smiled broadly. She and I were about the same height and build, though she was more given to the skinny jeans that Jill favored along with yoga-inspired outfits. However formal she had to dress for her professional life, Lulu maintained a fluid casual style in her off-duty attire. 

Just then, Jill opened the door and strode out, beaming. She had her reading glasses attached to the collar of her crew-neck t-shirt and had slipped into her laceless Converse low-tops for the trip outside. Becca ran over to hug her aunt, being more careful at the last moment, which I could tell Jill appreciated. Jill winked at me and greeted Lulu, who was closer, with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Have you been obeying your doctor’s orders, Stretch?” her best friend asked and then groaned when she remembered I too was a physician. “Lord, let me re-phrase that lest you take me literally and tell me things I need not know.” 

“I-uhm…Lu, really!” Jill said, exasperation in her voice. But I sensed she gave as good as she got with her friend. Jill sidled up to me, took one of the boxes out of my arms and kissed me softly on the lips. “Missed you,” she said softly, almost shyly. She almost sounded surprised at herself. 

“Alright love birds,” Lulu called over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold. “Pizza’ll get cold while you’re heating up.” Jill blushed but grinned and we followed them into her home.


	52. Pizza and Port

I was sure I had a goofy grin on my face most of the afternoon and early evening that Laura and I spent with Lulu and Becca. To have my three favorite women together for the first time made my heart sing. While Becs showed Laura her knitting-related booty—and Laura oohed and ahhed in all the right places—my sister-in-law and I warmed the pizzas in the oven, got the plates, glasses, napkins and spices out and on the table. 

“Did you…?” I tentatively inquired. Lu gave a dramatic shudder. 

“Yes, yes, I knew there’d be hell to pay if I didn’t make one of the pizzas a ham and pineapple,” she sniggered and gave my shoulder a playful shove. 

“Hey, watch it! I’m still out on disability,” I feigned injury, matching her drama by protectively clutching my tummy with both hands. 

“Bet you’re milking the heck out of that,” she teased. Then she grew serious, while outwardly focusing on place settings and utensils. “JR, how are you really, with regard to your injury and the emotional effects of it?” 

I glanced over at Laura and my niece, noted they were engrossed in enthusiastically discussing patterns and Laura had pulled out her laptop to search the fiber arts website Ravelry for additional options. “I’m doing ok, better than ok, I think. I already had an appointment with my therapist scheduled for this past week and kept it. She helped me debrief as did Jean Innocent during a phone call. It happened so fast, the stabbing, and in such an ordinary location. No time to brace for it, which was probably for the best. 

“And, of course, Laura’s been aces. She’s not clingy but not aloof. Just present. Available—emotionally…and physically,” I added. I groaned inwardly. “I’m not talking about sex here…” 

Lulu put a hand on my shoulder and rubbed it. “I know you aren’t. I knew what you meant. You’re not a very outwardly touchy-feely sort—Hal got that gene—but it is important for you to have someone who not only gets that about you but who can also offer you a shoulder or hand-holding when needed. Someone, unlike Helen, who doesn’t have to get out of their own way, because they’re already mentally healthy and available.” 

I nodded. Lu got me more than anyone in my life ever had. Until Laura came into my life in an Oxford alleyway. Then, as it turned out, I was blessed with two such intuitive, caring souls in my life. 

“I look at her, Lu, and wonder—corny as it sounds—what I did to deserve Laura. I know it’s still early days but…there’s a depth, a richness there between us I’ve never experienced before. A sense of being equals,” I tried to explain. I gave a little snort. “Hell, I’m lucky to have all of you here in my life.” 

Right then, before I could get really sappy, Becca sauntered over. “Laura and I are hungry. Can we eat now?” Lulu and I looked over at Laura, who gave a little “Well, it’s true” shrug and quirked a sheepish smile. I blew her a kiss. She “caught” it as she walked toward the kitchen. 

Lulu gently asked her daughter, who stood as tall as her. “Did Dr Hobson tell you that you could call her by her Christian name, Becs?” Becca nodded and Laura jumped in to note that she had. 

“The title, though well-earned, is not meant for friends, family and especially not fellow knitters,” she said, winking at Becca. I could see that, had there been any doubt of Lulu liking Laura Hobson, that was gone without a trace in seeing how Laura treated Lulu’s daughter. 

We shared the first of many dinners, full of laughter, teasing, story-telling. Becca proudly showed us the jaunty little scarves she had for the bears and noted she was expanding her sartorial repertoire to include vests. Her mum told us about attending a conference on forensic advances and how they could be incorporated in trials, a topic dear to Laura’s heart and mine. It turned out they shared some mutual acquaintances including a forensic pathologist named Dr Nikki Alexander at the Lyell Institute in London. 

When our bellies were comfortably full of pizza (though my niece and I had our ham and pineapple all to ourselves; Laura turned her nose up at the combination too), we sipped coffee in the living room. I retreived my bear supplies and finished sewing a pair of charcoal flannel shorts for one of the cuddly creatures. Becs took careful measurements for future projects using a completed bear, guided by a patient Laura, undoubtedly channeling her dear friend Miss Katie. 

My sister-in-law saw me gazing at Laura, studying her face, her hands in motion, the way her eyes lit up when her young protégé understand a new concept or stitch. Lu and I both got up to load the dishwasher and clean up. “You’re in love with her. Or if you aren’t yet, you’re definitely falling in that direction. And in my not-so-humble opinion, good on you,” she stated, her voice warm. “I wouldn’t want to have to bat you about the head for not doing so,” she added, giving me a serious look over her glasses, which magnified and highlighted her icy-blue eyes. 

I acknowledged her comment with a tip of my head, glancing down as I paused while wrapping up pizza for them to take home. “I am. It seems sudden in some ways, but in others, not at all. Almost effortless. Neither of us started off looking for love. I mean, I found her attractive but really was hoping to make a friend. Laura had never been involved with a woman before me, so she wasn’t seeking it either.” I related how Laura had questioned my asking her to dinner in the first place, how our connection slowly became closer, more intimate. Neither of us had had an agenda other than to share off-duty time with an interesting, considerate friend. Yet we found so much more. 

“I’ve watched the two of you this afternoon. You know that, like you, I’m trained to make snap judgments about people to assess them, their motivations, their veracity. You and Laura have such great chemistry and energy. She’s absolutely lovely, beautiful even. But, more than that, it’s who she is as a person. I know it’s early on, but I have a strong feeling that she’s family, and not only in the gay community term. JR, I love you as my sister and I’m so happy for you,” Lu said. She added, loud enough for Laura to overhear, “Now don’t fuck it up, Raymond!” 

Becca looked up and pretended to be horrified. “Mum! Language!” We all laughed, the other three chortling harder when they heard my bark-honk. 

About 15 minutes later, Lulu and Becca left, pizza and patterns tucked away. I saw Lu pull Laura into a quick hug and whisper something in her ear and then watched Laura’s shocked look turn to pleasure and then back to a blushing shock. Then Laura whispered something back and Lulu roared with laughter. They hugged again and Lulu got in the car. 

I walked down to stand by Laura as we waved them off. 

“What did Lu say to you at the end there,” I asked as we walked arm in arm back into the house. Laura tilted her head and gave a sheepish smile. 

Uh, well, she told me she would personally draw and quarter me if I hurt you…” 

“Bloody hell! Well she’s always had my back…” I wasn’t too surprised by my best friend’s ferocity, having witnessed her in action against school-yard bullies and top-notch legal competitors. 

“And, she said, ‘Welcome to the family’ and that everything she’d heard about me from Hal and Becca was true,” Laura added, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe her good fortune. “Um, she also said she loved seeing you look so happy. Must be the sex, she said.” 

I laughed. “Ah, ha, that explains your blushing. But what did you say back?” 

Laura shrugged in mock-innocence. “I said, ‘She’s an animal, that one. Insatiable too.’” 

Now it was my turn to blush. “I’m sorry I asked,” I said, pulling her into a tight embrace and growling into her ear. I playfully nipped and sucked on her lobe, knowing how much Laura relished that. 

“You just proved my point,” Laura responded, running her fingertip slowly down the center of my chest, leaving hardened nipples in her wake. “Now the sooner we clear out and get back to mine, the faster I can try to satisfy your carnal needs, my sweet blonde bear.” 

We drove back to Laura’s in her car, reasoning that if she were called out, I could either stay there or she could drop me back at mine. Desmond stretched and strutted up to us, purring happily and winding between our legs. 

“I missed you too, handsome,” I told him, stroking his thick fur as his smiling “mum” looked on. Laura guffawed. 

“He’s got you wrapped ‘round his sizable mitts,” she told me, but I could see the pride on her face and hear the love in her voice. She loved that big fellow, and, I knew, truly liked that I’d warmed to him even though she knew from our conversations that dogs were closer to my heart. But Des was dog-like in his affection and attention toward “his” humans. He would actually seek us out in the morning to bestow head butts and slim licks of his tongue on outreached hands. 

I sat down on the sofa whilst Laura started a fire and then brought two glasses and a bottle of excellent port over to join me. She reached into her knitting bag and retrieved double-pointed needles and a skein of striped sock yarn as I poured us each a glass. We toasted “to family, old and new” and kissed, tasting Italian spices, tomato and the rich port on each other’s lips. I licked her lips softly with the tip of my tongue, partly to taste, partly for the textural delight of doing so. Her lower lip was full and begged to be sucked upon, which I did, coaxing a low moan from deep in her throat. I threaded both hands through her gorgeous thick hair, massaging her scalp with my fingertips and was rewarded with small grunts of pleasure. Her left arm wrapped around me while her dominant right hand repeated its earlier actions, trailing up and down the center of my chest. 

“You’re such a tease,” I told her, my voice a bit breathless. I tried moving so her fingertips would veer onto the slope of a breast, but she held me firm, pressing me to the back of the sofa. 

“And YOU…you’re the insatiable one,” she proclaimed, taking over the kissing. Her tongue pushed past my lips to flirt with mine. She pulled back after a few moments, leaving me aching for more. “I was going to knit for a while, but nooooo, you had to have ‘dessert’ first,” Laura cheekily scolded me. 

“Oh, erm, did you really want to knit?” I asked, not sure whether she was serious. 

She sighed and chuckled. “I can do that later.” She thought for a moment. “Tell you what: given that I was going to use my hands to knit perhaps you can give me something else to do with them.” 

I tilted my head, intrigued. “Go on.” 

“Well, how about tonight, I can only make love to you with my hands…but you can only make love to me using your mouth?” 

I smiled, licked my suddenly parched lips and felt my knickers become moist simply thinking about those scenarios. “You’re on, Hobson. Should we flip a coin to see who goes first?”


	53. Clove and Sweet Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit F/F activity.

To be completely candid, there was no “winner” or “loser” to the coin toss. 

My tongue and I made love to Laura first. As I couldn’t use my hands, she had to undress herself, which she did very slowly. Shoes kicked off, socks slid off and tucked into said shoes. Jeans unzipped and inched down, oh she made me wait. Then nimble fingers gave me a preview of the delights awaiting me as she unbuttoned her shirt, unrolled the sleeves and, hips sweetly swaying, sauntered to the hamper to deposit it and the jeans. She reached round her back to unhook her lacy burgundy bra. That too followed the shirt. 

She never took her eyes off mine as she cupped her own breasts, flitting her thumb pads over her dusky areolae and nipples, giving me a lopsided smile as she saw my pupils darken, heard my breath quicken. 

“Not fair,” I mumbled with a pout as she walked to within inches of me. My nether lips clinched as warm desire coursed through my body. 

“We agreed I could only use my hands, didn’t we? Well, that’s what I’m doing,” Laura said, feigning innocence that was at odds with the hand she then put into her own panties. She moaned—I think we moaned in unison—as her fingers twirled in her wetness and then emerged, glistening, for me to see. 

“Oh God Laura…” I breathed. I needed to take charge of the situation; I was supposed to go first. I gritted my teeth and growled. Ok, fine. We can play this game, I thought. “Take off your knickers. Now,” I told her, brooking no argument. 

She swallowed. I could see she was giving thought to disobeying or ignoring me, but in the end her curiosity won out. Off came the panties, and we both could see that the crotch was wet through. 

“Oh my, Doctor,” I tsked. 

“I’ve been like that all day,” Laura admitted, ducking her head. Her expression conveyed shyness, a tinge of embarrassment and significant arousal. Her chest rose and fell with her shortened breaths. I stood in front of her, inhaling her essence, desire, the hint of raisiny port, the scent of her light cologne. She enchanted me. I thought for a moment. 

“Darling, could you sit on the edge of the bed for me?” I asked. I realized what we were doing required trust and could easily veer toward S&M, which I did not want for reasons of my own. She nodded, curious again and then she realized. 

“Ah, not fully up to ‘acrobatics’, Inspector?” she understood and sat where I’d requested. I pulled the pillows and quilt from the top of the bed and arranged them on the floor in front of her. She opened her legs, nearly stopping my heart. OK, I could switch gears, I thought. But before I could, she placed her hands on my shoulders. 

“You have far too much clothing on. Wait, let me. You’re extremely talented, love, but I don’t think you can undress yourself without using your hands,” she noted. She motioned for me to come closer and she stood. Just as slowly as she had removed her own attire, she rid me of my joggers, shirt, bra. As she pulled down my pants, she ran her palms down my legs, along the outside first and then achingly slower between my thighs, finishing by cupping my mons through my knickers, also a bit damp. Small grunts issuing from my tight-lipped mouth made her smile. 

She had me raise my arms so she could pull off my shirt, making a comment about the mussed state of my hair in the aftermath. “You already have ‘just-fucked’ hair.” Then she reached round me to unhook my bra (a concession to my niece’s earlier visit; usually I went without around the house on weekends). As soon as the bra came off, Laura’s hands found my breasts, bringing her warm palms under them to cuddle them. Her thumbs rippled the skin of my areolae, puckering it, making the nipples stand at attention. “Mmm, don’t they look proud,” she murmured encouragingly. I whimpered. 

Then I gasped as her hand found its way into my knickers, stroking through the wiry curls to my clit and swooping down to my very wet vagina. “Been like this all day too,” I managed. She grinned and reveled in the low groan I couldn’t bite back as she pressed her fingertips against my incredibly sensitive sex. God, she didn’t need to do much for me to climax—and she knew it. But she eased her hand out, brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. 

“As fragrantly wet and ready as you are, you’ll still have to wait a bit because yes, you were meant to make love to me first,” Laura wound me tighter than a toy top. 

“Hmph, quite right.” What a comeback line, Raymond. I directed her to sit; she complied; I lowered myself onto the pillow pile so our faces were at the same height. With my hands at my side, I kissed her, letting my mouth demonstrate just how aroused she’d made me, showing her just how much I wanted her, needed her. She moaned deeply as my tongue swept over hers like waves on a shoreline. Light caresses, then, the bite of a lip. 

Then, to mix things up, I withdrew my mouth from hers and bent low to wash my nose and mouth with her thatch of pubic hair. Darker blonde than the hair on her head with a kinked strand or two of gray running through it, her nether region begged to be loved. I worshipped it, planting light kisses on it, cherishing how my lips were lightly pushed back by the springiness of her curls. My tongue flicked out to top of the area, where her clitoral hood beckoned me with its deep pinkness. 

“Oh yes, Jill,” Laura urged. And so I continued to let my tongue and lips explore her. My lips pretended to be a tongue and glided up and down her. My tongue acted like lips, bussing outer and delicate inner labia like honeybee at a particularly sweet flower. Laura threw her head back, her breath coming faster. 

Licking her nectar from my lips, I smiled softly and unfolded myself and slowly walked my mouth up to her belly. It swelled ever-so-slightly, as to be expected with women of a certain age, the effects of gravity on display. Again, my mouth licked and danced over the pale skin, circling the pert navel, diving into its shallowness, exiting to drift upward, over heaving diaphragm, around a few red beauty marks dotting her slim torso. My tongue slid under her right breast, nose nuzzling it, delighting in the relative, pliable weight of it against my skin. 

Laura was everything I loved about making love to a woman in a beautiful gift: the sinewy strength, the tender, inherently soft skin, the textures and scents and sounds. 

I must have gotten lost in my dreamy appraisal, for she cheated a bit, placing her hand at the back of my head to guide my mouth to her nipple. “I thought you’d NEVER get there,” she groaned deep in her throat. 

“Patience, my love,” I recommended, my breath alighting her breast, my lower lip flirting with her nipple. 

“I’m hardly a paragon of virtue, in case you haven’t noticed,” she growled back, holding my head to her breast. “You’re fucking driving me wild!” 

I chuckled. “I am adoring you, and that cannot be rushed,” I explained, the tender wonder in my voice seeming to convince her. 

But my mouth did meander to her left breast, treating it to similar pleasures. I could have stayed there for hours, treasuring each breast, nipple, lightly nibbling the pink tips, watching her writhe and try to squeeze her legs together. Hearing her moan. 

I made my way back down the front of her body, like a walker strolling along a favorite road, when it seems she couldn’t take much more “adoration”. “Open your legs for me, sweetheart.” I didn’t need to tell her twice. 

Laura’s desire had soaked into the quilt beneath her and coated her entire public area with its glossy slickness. My tongue ducked into her vagina, lips teasing out more wetness and groans. Her slim fingers displayed their strength as they gripped my hair at its roots. My nose touched down against her clitoral hood, sending shivers through her body, stroking the swollen hood as a fingertip would. Then, my lips rejoined the party, tenderly pulling her clit into my mouth, sucking on it in long, slow movements. 

Now Laura was rocking into me, practically riding my face, urging me on with mews and moans. “Oh Jill, you’ve got me so close…so close…” She groaned, almost a keening, as my tongue tapped against her clit and my lips hugged her. And then, another “Oh fuck, Jill!” and she came hard, grinding her inner thighs against my ears, bucking over and over until she could only fall backward onto the bed. My tongue lapped broadly, tenderly, but carefully avoiding the clit itself. 

“Hold me,” she said, a command not a request, and I followed her up onto the bed proper, cradling her still-undulating body with my arms and my heart.


	54. Calendula

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explicit F/F activities as it's Jill's turn to receive.

A short time later, Jill gave a contented sigh, her arms wrapped around me squeezing a bit snugger. After our lovemaking, the events of the day caught up to the still-convalescing detective inspector and she dozed briefly after giving me yet another soul-deep orgasm. I told her, when I finally caught my breath, that she was an overachiever. “Yup,” she’d answered smugly. She smiled that squinty-eyed look that did me in every time.

“Are you too tucked out for me to complete my end of the bargain?” I asked slyly. Jill’s eyes opened wide. 

“Tired? I’m not tired! Bring it on!” she urged with a rather wolfish grin. She untangled her arms and let me up. 

“I had a thought,” I started. Jill looked intrigued. “As I may only use my hands…I could give you a massage. But not one to relax you per se. Rather, one to ‘stimulate’ you.” Jill shifted a bit on the bed and I was pretty sure she pressed her thighs together. She agreed the idea sounded like a good one. 

“Er, how do you want me?” she asked. I considered. Probably neither of us had the energy for an evening-til-dawn experience tonight. “Hmm, face up for tonight. But I reserve the right to re-visit this another time with the posterior of your body,” I told her. 

I took the covers off her feet and legs but allowed her to keep them across her upper body for warmth. “Close your eyes, if you like. This is going to be an exploration of feeling and sensation,” I suggested. I’d added the “if you like” bit because I wasn’t sure whether she would feel like it was an order and I didn’t want this experience to have any dominant/submissive tones to it. There was no need to “spice up” our lovemaking with “shades of gray” or any other hue. Jill Raymond and her luscious body were/are more than enough to keep me satisfied. 

Jill closed her eyes, her lips slightly parted in anticipation. I began our journey at her feet. Neat with trimmed nails, sans polish, a few pumice-smoothed calluses under the balls of her feet from the legwork of her profession. My fingers fluttered over the top of her feet and then gripped each toe in turn, giving a light tug on the tips. Jill sighed. 

I half-squeezed, half-massaged each foot, cupped each heel because I remembered a massage therapist once told me that area represented the low back. Jill, whom I knew had a low back issue that occasionally played up, groaned a little. “Mmm, that feels lovely,” she said, stretching out the last word. Her voice tickled my clit awake. 

I circled her slim ankles with my palms and then moved to the knees. Sometime later, I read somewhere that, for Capricorns like Jill Raymond, the knees were an erogenous zone. That certainly seemed to be the case for her. I lightly traced the ridges and hilltops of her patellar region and Jill’s eyes opened, her pupils large, as she propped herself on her elbows. 

“How—uhm, how did you know I’m a bit sensitive there?” she said, her breath quickening, hips bucking a little. 

I tossed her a smile and a wink. “I didn’t…til now. And don’t think for a moment I won’t remember it.” Jill moaned as she lay back down and snuggled into the covers again. I spent more time than expected on her knees, squeezing them between my palms as if squeezing a lemon, barely touching them, then hugging them again. Jill’s hips told the story of her arousal as they rose and fell. 

Slowly, I made my way up her thighs, letting my fingers, nail-side down, drift over them like swans on the canal. I floated up her torso, temporarily bypassing her groin, belly and breasts to reach her head and face. Pressed against her in a semi-seated position, I engaged in a scalp massage, raking my hands through her hair, capturing fistfuls and very gently tugging on them. Jill grinned like a cat that had found a wheel of cheese. I stroked her face, touched the two moles on the right side of her face as if they were talismans, playing with her earlobes, which I already knew she enjoyed, and then my fingers slowly strolled downward to her neck and farther south, so to speak. 

My hands walked the lengths of her strong, prominent clavicles, marveling at their density and chiseled-from-alabaster appearance. My lips twitched, jealous of my hands, and I groaned to express my mouth’s frustration. “Why did I pick ‘hands’? There’s so much I want to do to you with my mouth!” I exclaimed, much to Jill’s amusement. 

Her voice richly husky, she assured me I’d have plenty of opportunity to use my mouth on her in the near future. “And you have to know, you’ve got me so aroused using your ha---dear God, Laura…” she gasped as the backs of my fingers ever-so-lightly brushed across her nipples. I studied her breasts, noting how the left was slightly larger than the right, how each bore their own unique beauty marks. The left, a cluster of three faded freckles in a triangle, just superior and medial to the areola. The right, two tiny red ones side by side horizontally just above where the flesh connected to her chest. 

I lay down beside her so my hand could cradle first one perfect breast then the other, my thumb shivering over the puckered areolae and dense little nipples. What would my mouth do, I asked myself. It would take each nipple inside and suckle. With precise movement of my thumb and first two fingers, my hand mimicked that motion. And goodness, did Jill love it. Her head rolled from side to side, mouth open, panted groans greeted my ears like a favorite tune. I closed my eyes and tried to commit to memory every slope of each breast through my palms, fingertips even gentle knuckle traces. 

“Could you come only from this?” I asked Jill, curious. 

Eyes still closed, she nodded. Challenge accepted. One of my thumbs barely rubbed a nipple, my other hand swept and swirled over the other breast, dipping and dancing. Butterfly kisses of fingertips. I watched as she writhed and her breath came in short pants. Then, suddenly, she was there. Lips wide apart, groan pulling up from deep inside her, hands clinched in the bedding. Her face flushed, hair wild, Jill Raymond was absolutely stunning when she came. 

As her orgasm tapered off, her own right hand twitched, wanting to help herself reach a second peak. Ego didn’t come into it for me; I hadn’t seen another woman touch herself and was fascinated. “Go on, love,” I whispered encouragement. While Jill was less shy about standing half-naked in a locker room, I also had come to realize she was a very private person. She gave of herself quite easily—it was one of the qualities that endeared her to me—but shared herself with few. 

I smiled as, eyes still closed, she slid her hand down into the thicket of wiry brown hair. Her middle finger feverishly stroked her clit through its hood. She grunted in gasps and then my name exploded from her lips. “Laura, oh Laura!” 

“Do you have any idea of how much I love you?” I told her, snuggling into her love-warm body and pulling the covers over us. I’m not sure she heard, for her breath had slowed and dropped into a dreamer’s cadence. Nonetheless, tears came to my eyes. Loving Jill Raymond now seemed as natural to me as my own breath.


	55. Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teensy bit of angst and then...

It turned out, my blonde bear also talked in her sleep, sometimes muttered indecipherable grunts, other times, full words. Utterly adorable. Those three creases furrowing the space between her dark-blonde eyebrows that would then iron out as little mews escaped her lips. 

Suddenly, the snuffling stopped. Jill gripped my body tighter and a very clearly horrified “No! Dont! Stop!” spurted forth from her lips. She groaned, right hand clutching her middle as she doubled forward, folding nearly in half. “Oh God, no!” Jill screamed in pain, her eyes squeezing shut, body stiffing. 

“Jill, you’re having a bad dream, wake up! Jill, wake up!” I held her, stroked her arms, willed her to leave the nightmare. 

Her eyes flew open. Her face contorted with fear and agony. “What?! Oh, God…” and then “Laura…” She sat up, shuffled away from me, buried her face in her hands. I placed a hand on her forearm to comfort her, but she wriggled out of my grasp and turned her back on me, laying as close to the edge of the bed as possible. “Please, just…don’t touch me. I-I, just don’t, please,” Jill said, sounding like she was partly pleading, partly ordering me to keep my hands off her. I scooted back to my side of the bed, bewildered. 

“Ok, Jill, ok. Can I get you anything?” Brilliant, Laura. The woman’s clearly had a horrible dream and you’re playing hostess. But I was used to sleeping alone and didn’t have a playbook for waking up to my lover screaming from a nightmare. Not sure of what to do, I got out of bed and poured a glass of water from the bathroom tap and placed it on the chair we were using as a bedside table for Jill. I tried not to look at her rigid, balled up form, sensing she did not want to feel observed, and then returned to my side of the bed. I sat up, covered pulled up to my upper chest, and waited. After a few minutes I realized Jill was quietly crying. I could see her torso move up and down, hear her breath catch in her throat. My hand instinctively started to reach out to her, but then I pulled it back. 

“Jill, darling, is there something I can do for you? Would it help to talk about it?” I kept my voice low. 

She sniffled and cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I can’t…I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry,” she said, slipping out of bed, grabbing her t-shirt and panties and fleeing the bedroom. After a few seconds, during which I surmised she was donning those items of clothing, I heard her footfalls down the stairs. Then, the soul-deep sobbing began, like a torrential downpour. 

Stunned but knowing she needed to be taken at her word, I stayed upstairs in bed. Again, my instinct was to identify the problem and try to find a solution for it. But I knew there were sides to Jill Raymond she kept locked away. She’d hinted as much, demonstrated as much too in how she had slowly opened doors to me—the bears, her mother’s alcoholism, her own financial independence—that she didn’t readily share with others. I waited in the dark. Used the bathroom, drank a glass of water, went back to bed. Torn between going down to her and letting her come back to me. 

About a quarter-hour later, the crying ceased. Another 15 minutes passed and her bare feet padded up the stairs and into the darkened bedroom. She stopped about 5 feet from me. “Hi,” she said, her voice tentative as if she were unsure of the reception she would receive. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” I replied, giving her what I hoped would look like a compassionate smile. Her dark hazel eyes were bloodshot, her lips puffy. She stood with one foot atop the other. Not the confident, bold woman who had masterfully guided me toward ecstasy earlier—no, that wasn’t true. The same woman, only a side of her I’d not seen before. This side was profoundly vulnerable, unsure of herself or at least how she would be perceived. 

But, unlike earlier, I decided to make a move. “Jill, you don’t have to say anything. But may I hold you? Would you let me hold you or do you want to hold me?” 

She thought for a moment and then nodded. “You me,” she said, then, chagrinned, she quirked a little smile. “Would you hold me?” I could tell asking that didn’t come easily for her. 

“Of course. Hop in,” I said, keeping my tone light, shuffling over to make room for her. Jill scooted in next to me, then turned to rest her head against my shoulder. Her right arm went round my waist. I cuddled her, pulling the bedding up around us. 

For several minutes, we lay like that, quiet, only the sound of each other’s breathing to be heard. I kissed her head, stroked her back slowly, gently. “Is this ok?” I asked. 

“Mmm, yes, thank you,” her voice a raspy whisper. “It feels good.” Then silence again. I’d nearly drifted off to sleep when Jill cleared her throat and spoke. “Thank you, for this, for how you handled earlier. The dream, ha, no, nightmare I was having disorientated me and then realizing you were there—oh God, of course you were there, it’s your bed—I mean that I wasn’t alone…I’m-I’m not used to waking up with someone…and being vulnerable…” she choked up. A moment later, I felt tear drops on my chest. My heart ached for her. I sensed it was something beyond the nightmare that either troubled Jill or contributed to the bad dream. 

“Do you want to talk about it, love?” I asked, stroking her arm. She didn’t answer right away. Before she did, she cleared her throat, lightly played with the teeny peach-fuzz hairs on my tummy. 

“Ok, yes. Let’s sit up so we can see each other better,” she directed, and we did just that. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, pushed her fringe out of her eyes and began to speak. “First, before I tell you, I need you to know you did absolutely nothing wrong. And I am not pulling away from you. Ok?” 

I nodded, though my heart fell to my stomach all the same. “Ok.” 

She explained that she’d dreamt that I, not Mrs. Delby, was attacking her. She tried to stop me as she saw the knife glint toward her in slow motion but couldn’t prevent me from plunging it into her abdomen. And then my face morphed into that of her previous lover, Helen Charleson. 

“I think that was because Helen’s name came up earlier with Lulu, who despised her. Perhaps because of some post-traumatic symptoms, as my mind pushes past the attack. And…perhaps because I’ve allowed myself to be more open with you. That—that’s not something I allow to happen very often. Hardly at all, to be honest. And I’m glad, very glad, I have but…” 

“It’s all a lot to process? And add in pain meds and general anesthesia…” I noted. 

“Exactly. Got it on one,” she said, tightly. “I also realize the time has come to tell you why Helen and I broke up.” I swallowed hard, my heart seemed to thump harder again. That sounded ominous. But then Jill reached out for my hand. She turned over my palm and drew circles on its surface with her thumb. 

“Laura, I ended my relationship with Helen because she hit me.” I gasped but didn’t say anything, knowing she needed to continue uninterrupted. “It happened twice. The first time, she shoved me into the edge of a kitchen counter at her condo and I bruised a rib. We’d been playing around but something I said irked her and she pushed me. The second and last time happened in my living room. She was drunk at 2 in the afternoon and wanted to drive to the liquor store. I tried to stop her, grabbing her keys, but she clawed my hand and then slapped me hard in the face. When I put my hand up to my face, she snatched the keys and took off. She didn’t get her drink driving offense that night but rather the following evening. By then, I’d changed the locks, blocked her number and told Jean Innocent about it. She saw to it that Helen was not permitted into the station. 

“About a week later, she followed me out at lunch time, only half in the bag that time, and tried to apologize. I told her we were done and why. I didn’t see her again until she appeared at my door a few weeks back. I should have ended it after the first time, but I made excuses for her. Lulu only semi-jokingly mentioned taking out a hit on her. Until I was in therapy for a while, I partly blamed myself for her drinking. I suppose I did for my mum’s alcoholism too. Therapy and Al-Anon helped me see I didn’t cause and couldn’t control or cure an alcoholic’s behavior. 

“But I suppose it all came up again with the excitement of the past few weeks. Even good—no, fucking great stress, such as falling in love with you—is stress and can trigger things,” she ended, her tone rueful. She kissed my palm. I brought her hand to my mouth so I could kiss hers in turn. 

“Oh Jill, I’m so sorry you went through that. Thank you for telling me. I did wonder whether there was something more to your break-up, giving the strong reaction you had to seeing her that day. It wasn’t merely the surprise of her showing up on your doorstep,” I noted. 

No, Jill said, it wasn’t. “During my time off, I have also been thinking about us and about Helen’s request to make amends. I know it’s mainly to help her work her AA steps; but I do wonder whether I should let her do so…so I can fully move on from her and give myself completely to you. I know Lulu would like to stick it to her but…” she paused. 

“I appreciate that Lulu’s in your corner and wants to protect you. I understand that, believe me. But…you have to do what feels right for you. And only you know what that is. For what it’s worth, I do see the validity in your meeting her,” I told her, looking into her beautiful brown eyes. I threaded my fingers through hers. “l’ll support whatever you decide.” 

Jill nodded and then yawned expansively. “Sorry…Thank you, Laura. Ready for kip again?” And we slid down under the cozy bedding, Jill’s head resting on my shoulder and upper chest again. Despite the conversation, I found her breath on my chest—and her mouth so close to my nipple—stimulated me again and I shifted a bit trying to press down on my re-awakened clit. 

Despite her sleepy state, Jill caught on to what I was doing. “Good God, woman! Are you horny again?!” she muttered. 

“It’s your fault, Raymond. You’re breathing on me,” I half-grumbled and then giggled, knowing how silly that sounded. 

“Fine, I’ll cop to the charge,” she laughed, a baby honk. “And my penance will be helping you out of this, uhm, difficulty. As long as you don’t mind if I continue to breath on your breast…among other things.” 

“Not at all. Now get cracking,” I said and guided her right hand to exactly where I needed it. 

“My God, you’re already so wet,” she exclaimed softly. 

“It seems to be a constant state for me these days,” I told her in between gasps as her fingers stroked and swirled. “Oh God, Jill…yes!”


	56. Roses and Lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of Helen...(don't fret, she doesn't hang around long)

The following three weeks of my medical leave passed in a happy bubble, to a great extent. Laura and I spent as much time together as her schedule would allow. Sometimes, I played “homemaker” (to use that archaic mid-century American term) and had straightened up her place and had dinner on the table when she got home from work. 

“You could easily spoil me,” she told me one night as I served up a Caesar salad and spaghetti carbonara with crispy pancetta, snap pea pods and decadent chunks of lobster. I assured her I would love nothing more because she deserved to be treated well. 

“And you always kiss the cook, so that’s a point in your favor too,” I noted. With that, she rose from her seat and made a point of kissing said cook quite passionately. Enough so that the cook contemplated dramatically clearing the table—dishes and platters be damned—and taking her diner right there. 

I did manage to hold off, however, till we were settled on the sofa, snuggled under a quilt, and brandy had warmed our lips. Then I made slow, passionate love to Laura Hobson and feasted on her beautiful body with eager tongue, ravenous lips, gentle teeth, delighted fingers. 

Still learning each other’s body, we flitted between behaving like giddy teenagers in the throes of first love, all puppy cuddles and occasional fumbles and the mature, been-round-the-block women we chronologically were, with a woman’s wisdom of her own body and what felt good, better, bloody fucking best. 

We visited the Carrolls’ shop, including Becca when her school work allowed, and closely followed the progress of her knitting skills. Like her mum, Becs was a quick study who gracefully picked up new talents. She’d progressed to cabled jumpers for the bears, which left her new “Auntie Laura” absolutely chuffed and beaming with pride. 

In addition, I followed through on my commitment to therapy. Partly because of my conversations with my therapist, I reached a decision about Helen. I would reach out to her and let her make amends. Laura Hobson and our relationship was the other key factor in my decision regarding Helen. I wanted—needed in fact—for Laura and my relationship to not have that baggage dragging behind us. For I realized I too had made mistakes regarding Helen and needed to acknowledge them to move beyond them. 

Of course, I’d thrown out the slip of paper on which Helen had written her number. But, under the heading of “small world,” I found myself having coffee one weekday at an area café after a therapy session. Perfect timing. In walked Helen and a woman whom I knew as a QC I’d met at one of Lulu and Hal’s get-togethers. Helen told me later the woman was her AA sponsor, someone who had “durable” sobriety of nearly 30 years. 

Helen looked startled when her eyes met mine but she soon recovered when I gave her a nod and a smile that spoke more of acquaintanceship more than anything else. She said something to her friend, who in turn gave me a wave and a knowing smile and then gave Helen a quick hug. The other woman, Celeste Woodbridge, turned and made her way to order alone. (Celeste then strode outside to enjoy her coffee and make a phone call, thoughtfully giving Helen the space she needed.) 

Helen wove her way to my table, where I stood to meet her, arms at my side so she did not get the impression I was going to either hug her or accept a hug from her. 

“Hello, Jill. Uh, how are you? I heard you were, er, injured in the line of duty,” Helen’s face showed nothing but concern. I indicated I was fine, still out on medical leave, but fine. Knowing that I sounded a bit brusque, I offered her the seat opposite me. It was later afternoon, and the café traffic was limited to a table of American tourists knackered off their feet and a grad student way in the back in a cocoon of earbuds, textbook and laptop. A conversation between us could take pace in relative privacy. 

“I, um, I’m glad to run into you,” I said carefully, my tone neutral. “To be honest, I’d tossed out your number but did want to have a conversation with you about amends,” I explained. Helen looked a little taken aback by my admission but recovered quickly. 

“Oh, oh good. Thank you. Can’t say I blame you. I kind of did barge in on what looked like a romantic dinner for two,” she admitted, her tone rueful. I didn’t bother to correct her; the evening had begun as dinner between friends and ended with our first real kisses. And Helen no doubt picked up on the crackling energy between Laura and me. 

“So, is this a good time for that conversation?” I asked. I saw Helen quickly glance outside at Celeste, now taking notes during a phone call. 

“Well, yes, it could be. Let me just communicate that to my sponsor. You remember Celeste, right?” I nodded, and Helen walked out to talk with Celeste who was just ringing off. I looked away to give them some privacy. In a few minutes, Helen returned, a slight smile on her face. 

“Let me just get some caffeine—and may I get you another?” I asked for a sparkling water, and she returned to the table some moments later with a large latte for herself and my water. We each sipped from our beverages after I thanked her for mine and cracked open the bottle. I’d studied Helen while she waited for her drink to be made. Despite her nervousness at the pending conversation, she had an aura of peace I’d not associated with her. She looked older than I recalled, but experiences such as hers could age a person, to be sure. A few more lines around her mouth and eyes, yet her eyes sparkled again as they hadn’t during the last year or so we were together. 

Helen took a deep breath and began. “First, I’d like to apologize for how I handled myself that night several weeks ago. I behaved inappropriately. You owe me no explanation for how you live your life. I lost that privilege when I, um, hit you. Second, I do sincerely apologize for hitting you. God, that was inexcusable. I’m sorry for the injuries I caused you, for irreparably damaging your trust in me…for everything.” She took another sip to wet her anxiety-parched throat. 

“You deserved better, you deserve better,” Helen continued. “I wish I could have been the one to give that to you but…I’m sorry. I’ve been sober for 10 months and 2 days now. Celeste and the people in my meetings, which I attend daily either online or in person, have helped me see I am powerless over alcohol but not powerless over my behavior. I’m responsible for my behavior, and making amends is about taking responsibility for that.” 

I took a long swallow of my water and placed the bottle back on the table. “Helen, I appreciate you reaching out and making amends. I can’t say I’ll forget what happened between us, but I can say I forgive you. Even a month ago, I wasn’t ready to say that last bit.” 

“What changed, Jill?” Helen started, then looked down as the answer hit her between the eyes. “Ah, Laura Hobson,” she said, a tinge of self-pity mixed with bitterness in her voice and expression. 

My hand batted back and swept aside her comment. “Helen, I’m not going to talk about any relationship I am or am not in now. That’s not what this conversation is about.” I changed the direction. “I will tell you I have amends to make to you.” She looked up at me, deciding whether I was taking the piss. 

I continued. “I should have gone to Al-Anon sooner. I should have made more time for you, for our relationship—you had every right to ask for more of me. Quality and Quantity of time. No excuses either. God knows I had them at the ready then,” I noted, allowing the regret into my voice. 

Helen instinctively put a hand on my forearm and raised her other hand to my cheek. She was always more tactile than I was. 

“Please don’t,” I said, easing my arm out of her grasp and moving my head beyond her reach. 

But my responses did not happen quickly enough. Laura had spotted me as she walked by and was about to enter the café when she saw Helen’s gesture. I didn’t find that out till later. 

Helen had the good sense to look chagrinned. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Look, I shouldn’t keep you any longer,” she said. Her eyes shone with tears waiting to fall once she left the café. “I wish you well, Jill. Thank you for letting me make amends to you, and thank you for what you said. Good bye.” And with that, she got up and went toward the café bathroom. A few minutes later, she walked past me without turning her head. Outside, Celeste walked up to her and steered her down the street, a supportive arm around her. 

***

After testifying in court that afternoon, I needed a caramel latte pick-me-up. Strolling to one of the cafes near the justice center, I thought about arriving at Jill’s door still wearing my more formal court-appearance suit and low pumps so see whether she’d like to undress me. As I neared the door of the café, I stopped dead in my tracks. At a table by the front window, there sat Jill with Helen Charleson. Helen had her one hand on Jill’s forearm, the other on Jill’s cheek as if to cup it. 

Fuck. I wanted to storm in and confront Helen—and Jill, for that matter. What the bloody hell—

“Laura? Dr Hobson,” a voice called to me from the seating area behind me. I spun ‘round to see Celeste Woodbridge waving to me. A fellow knitter whose passion was for lace shawls, Celeste and I occasionally met whilst shopping at the wool shop, and we knew each other from court. She motioned for me to sit down. In a normal tone of voice, she asked what I had on my needles; then she lowered her voice to a whisper. She must have seen me staring, gobsmacked at Jill and Helen, for she said, “Look, Laura, without breaking any confidences, it might be helpful to leave those two alone right now. It’s not as cozy as it looks, but that’s all I can say,” Celeste said, putting an index finger to her nose. 

As I looked up, I saw Jill had withdrawn her arm and leaned back out of Helen’s reach. I quickly looked back at Celeste. “Thanks for the heads-up,” I whispered back. She offered to get me a drink and waved away my money. I busied myself getting my current sock project out of my bag to show her when she returned. I got it. Jill and Helen were engaged in the “amends” conversation. Maybe Helen was a bit handsy but I couldn’t fault her initiative once I knew what Celeste did. 

Neither Jill nor Helen seemed to notice me, they were focused on what appeared to be an intense conversation. Then, Helen left the table. Jill brushed her hair back from her face and exhaled. I tried to read her expression through the glass without being so obvious that she spotted me. Relief? Sadness? Serenity? She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone and began texting, a smile playing upon her lips. 

Celeste returned with my latte. “You can buy the next round at the tea shop. Ciao!” And she strode to the doorway to greet Helen as she exited. I turned away in my seat and buried my face in my phone, which had just indicated I had a text, hoping Helen wouldn’t notice me. Perhaps she couldn’t see me through the tears streaming down her face. I felt a twinge of compassion for her. She was obviously trying to do the right thing for her sobriety. I guessed that Celeste was her sponsor and was waiting outside for her. Realizing this, and that Celeste had saved me from making a complete arse of myself, I knew I owed Celeste a great deal more than a single cup of tea or even a pot and made a mental note to get her a small gift certificate to the wool shop in gratitude. I looked at my phone: 

“Are u thru in court? How’d it go? Thinking of you, my love. JR xxx” 

I smiled. “Finished up about 10 mins ago. Went well. Look outside. LH xxx” 

Jill read my response and looked up and out the window. A big, happy-puppy grin lit up her face when her eyes met mine. She left the table and was outside in a flash pulling me into a hug that left no doubt as to our relationship. 

“Well, this IS a wonderful surprise!” she said, pulling back a bit to look me over. “I say, Laura, you look grand today.” I smiled, loving the vaguely old-fashioned phrasing she sometimes used. It suited her, somehow, this dapper blonde detective who hand-stitched teddy bears to life in her spare time. 

“Can I buy you a drink? Or an early dinner?” I asked, stroking her hand. She laughed and told me she’d had enough to drink but wouldn’t turn down dinner, as long as I didn’t think she was under-dressed. 

“How about that wood-fired pizza place around the corner? Casual enough for your Converse?” I teased her. That day, she wore a pair of black low-tops with rainbow-hued flames along the sides along with her usual skinny jeans and an untucked chambray shirt…that looked suspiciously like one in my closet. 

“Is that my shirt?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow. Jill ducked her head. “Yes…I hope you don’t mind my borrowing it. It…it smells like you,” she said shyly. 

My heart melted. “You say the sweetest things, Jill Raymond.” I leaned over and gently kissed her cheek. “C’mon, I’ll even give your pineapple and ham a try if you’re willing to add ricotta.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With deep gratitude to my wife for her feedback on this chapter.


	57. Embers

Ok, so ham and pineapple weren’t really my thing on pizza. I’m more of an Italian fennel sausage and black olives kind of girl. Jill took my opinion in stride, noting we agreed on so much that disagreeing even on something so significant as pizza toppings (she dramatically rolled her eyes and harrumphed) was…tolerable. 

Over dinner, Jill brought up about the serendipitous meeting with Helen. “I figured we might as well tackle it then and there. I’d planned to tell you when I had a meeting scheduled with her but this came up out of the blue.” She said the conversation had been relatively easy and that Helen seemed quite sincere. 

Jill reached across the table to take my hand in hers. “I didn’t tell her our dinner that night had not started as ‘romantic’ but certainly ended that way. I appreciate her making amends but don’t want to share anything about my current life or our relationship with her.” 

I stroked her fingers, feeling the slight calluses along the thumb and first two fingers. They were from sewing the bears, using thick, sturdy upholstery thread and heavier-than-usual needles. I loved them as tangible proof of her compassion. She was even being kind to Helen by not letting her know of our relationship. 

What she said next surprised me enough to pull my hand back, almost by reflex. “I also made amends to her, Laura.” 

“Whatever for?!” I asked, nonplussed. She put her hand out again but I wasn’t ready to take it. Jill sighed, fidgeted with the top of the spoon on the tablecloth. She looked into my eyes then, her own eyes conveying sadness. 

“Because, her alcoholism aside, I was not there, not present in our relationship. I took it and her for granted. I acted as though the world revolved around my career. And beyond that, I wasn’t emotionally available. I didn’t ask a lot of Helen—nor did I offer much of myself,” she explained. Tears clouded Jill’s rich hazel irises, her eyelids drooped in sorrow. 

“Oh, come now. Everyone gets busy,” I said, trying to ease her burden and obvious pain. She shook her head. A tear escaped her right eye and trickled down her face, unchecked. Clearly, I was missing something. She tried again. 

“Laura, I’ve been creating the bears for about 5 years now. Yet, until you, I’d told only my immediate family and Jean Innocent (who guessed) about them, that I, not some presumed elderly granny, made them. Perhaps Helen guessed and never said anything. But—“she held up her hand to stop me from interrupting—“the point is this: I did not share that with Helen. I never told her. What her reaction would have been is immaterial. The fact that I didn’t feel, I don’t know, safe? Comfortable? sharing that important part of myself with the woman I supposedly loved and was partnered with…” 

Jill ground out. Her tears flowed and she covered her face with her hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our waitress coming over and quickly gave her a double nod to indicate “Not now, please”. Fortunately, she took the hint and left us alone. 

I started to get up to hold Jill but before I could, she murmured “I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” and dashed to the bathroom. I didn’t follow, realizing she wanted to be alone to regain her composure. Instead, I found the waitress, thanked her for her discretion and paid the bill so we could leave when Jill returned. 

Somehow, I wasn’t tremendously surprised to learn of Jill’s emotional distancing in her past relationship. Her mother had been an alcoholic, and I recalled reading of other adult daughters of alcoholic mothers who found it challenging to be fully engaged in a romantic relationship. Heaven knows, I knew firsthand about the effects of a narcissistic mother on her daughter’s capacity to maintain successful relationships. When that early all-important bond is missing or broken, the effects can deeply impact a child. Some research, I remembered, even predicted a daughter’s key personality traits—or which predominanted—depending on which parent was the alcoholic and at what age the child learned of the parent’s alcoholism. 

“Hello you,” Jill said, placing a hand on my shoulder. I was so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t seen or heard her approach. She’d splashed water on her face and looked calm, if a shade embarrassed. “The check…”   
“Already taken care of. Shall we go, love?” I asked, covering her hand with my own. She nodded. Once outside, a slight chill in the early evening air made us both shiver. Jill had Ubered into town so we walked to where my car was parked. 

“Jill, where do you want to go—and would you like company or do you need to be alone tonight?” My question hung in the air like breath on a winter’s night. Jill wrinkled her brow in thought. “And please, tell me what you need, not what you think I might want,” I said, giving her permission to put herself first. 

“I…I would like to go home to my place. And…would you stay with me tonight? I’m not sure how entertaining I’ll be, but…I don’t want to hide or shut you out,” she said, and she tucked her right hand under my left thigh. It was her way of maintaining a connection without interfering with my hands on the wheel. 

“Ok if I stop by for a change of clothes and to make sure your BFF has what he needs?” She smiled at the reference to Desmond. 

Back at Jill’s, I slipped out of my suit and into a sleep shirt and robe of hers. She took a shower, emerging some 15 minutes later with tousled damp hair, darkened by the water, and a sense of serenity. Wearing an old Oxford hoodie and cotton pj bottoms, she kissed the top of my head as she walked past where I was knitting on the sofa and strode to a writing desk. She sat in the desk chair and pulled out a leather journal and fountain pen and began writing. Instrumental piano music carried through the open space with a soft presence; Ludovico Einaudi’s compositions always soothed Jill. Still do. 

A few hours later, Jill looked up from her writing and stretched, just as I tucked away my knitting and did the same. We both yawned and then grinned at each other. 

“Bedtime?” I asked, not able to stifle a second yawn. She shook her head and said she wanted to read out in the living room for a bit. We kissed goodnight. 

“Thank you, Laura…for everything tonight,” she said. I dipped my head in acknowledgement. “Always.” 

She tipped my head so she could look me in the eye. “Laura, I don’t ever want to slip back into my old patterns. I know it may happen, especially during a complex investigation. Will you tell me, guide me back?”

My love for Jill Rebecca Raymond blossomed anew. “Of course, my love. You’re getting away from me that easily.” 

I fell asleep almost as soon as I took off the robe and shirt and my tired body hit the mattress. Sometime later, I woke to find my sleepy bear burrowing up against me, making sweet little snuggly sounds. And then, her feet touched mine. 

“Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ!” I bellowed, wide awake then. “Have you kept them in a mortuary freezer?!” 

She honked at the expression, picked up from a naughty American friend and fellow pathologist, Amy Shepherd, but hastily withdrew her frigid toes. “All clear!” she announced and placed a surprisingly warm hand on my tummy. Her deft fingers began drawing e-widening circles. Despite the late hour and the long day, my clit began to pulse. 

“Great, guess who you woke up,” I grumbled to her, and started to move her hand between my legs. 

“Steady on, tiger,” she nuzzled my ear with a spine-tingling whisper as she slipped her hand over mine. “Why don’t you show me…” Her voice, like a drizzle of warm caramel, made me wetter still. 

“Fine” I huffed. She eagerly sucked on my breast while I led our fingers follow the tried and true path to a quick but sleep-inducing orgasm. After I came, she slowly, tenderly licked my fingers and then pressed her still-fragrant hand to my chest. 

“By the way, you’d better correct the record with Lulu. YOU’RE the insatiable one,” a melty chuckle rumbled against my breasts. 

“Happily guilty as charged. Darling, what can I do for you now?” I inquired, though I think we both knew I wasn’t in much condition to help her. 

“I have everything I need right here, right now,” she whispered graciously, failing to suppress an expansive yawn. And with that, we both nodded off, cradled in each other’s arms like happy kittens.


	58. Honeysuckle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit F/F material. And we learn about Jill's waistcoats.

On the weekend before I started back to work, Laura and I slept in on Saturday at her place. A hungry Desmond woke me, making biscuits. His favorite method of announcing his desire for food: standing and kneading atop our lower abdomens. That boy had a sixth sense about full bladders. 

I got up, used the bathroom, gave him food and fresh water and padded back to bed to snuggle up and spoon Laura. She snuffled and whimpered in her half-sleepy state, pawing behind her to pull my left arm around her body. The tips of my pinkie and ring finger grazed her breast. The tip of my nose played with her hair, her nape, the back of her left ear. She mumbled something adorably incomprehensible—the language of sleep—and pressed a bit back into me. Her hips pushed back into my groin, sparking my clit to life. Asleep, my arse. She knew exactly what she was doing. Before I knew it, she’d flipped over and straddled me, pushing her thigh into my sex and eliciting a moan from my mouth. 

“Mmm, someone’s warm and wet,” she noted with a grin, her first-morning-words voice deliciously husky. That voice alone sent pulse waves of desire down to my sex. Her slow, decadent rhythm deepened my need further still. Pressing her lower thigh into me, she lowered herself over me, rubbing our breasts together. Within seconds, four taut nipples achingly scrapped against each other; both of us groaned from the intense pleasure-pain of it. 

“Bloody hell, Hobson,” I muttered. “Ok, message received.” I wiggled against her leg, tried to press myself hard against it to satisfy the swollen ache in my clit. 

“Someone’s also impatient,” Laura said with a playful smirk as she withdrew her thigh and I moaned, momentarily bereft. “We have time, love, let’s take it.” 

Famous last words. 

With seconds, as her mouth made love to my breasts and her fingers were busy stoking the fire in my groin, her phone rang, the ring tone that indicated someone needed her in an official capacity. 

“Damn it, I forgot Jasper was out sick. That means I’m on call,” she sighed, quickly wiping her hand on the sheet and reaching for the insistent phone. “Hobson…No, you were right to call…text me the address, please. Thank you, be there in 15, bye,” she said, already out of bed and at the bathroom vanity. 

I lay back, covering my face with my hands. I knew work came first—minutes mattered in her examination of a murder victim when evidence could be scattered by wind or inadvertently damaged by the occasional probationary constable. Still, I felt awkward, shy and incredibly horny at the same time. 

After a swig, swish and spit of mouthwash (she kept toothbrush and paste at the office), Laura quickly threw on knickers, bra, button-down shirt and khakis, slipped her feet into socks and hiking boots. She leaned over the bed, gently prying my fingers from my face. 

“I’m so sorry to leave you hanging, love.” She kissed my mouth, closed mouth, knowing anything more would make matters worse, and ran her fingers through my hair. “IOU? I’ll call you when I have a sense of timing…and won’t fault you if you have to, uh, finish what I started. Bye, sweetheart, I love you.” 

“Bye, Laura. Be safe. I love you,” I said fervently. The latter two sentences had become our standard parting since my injury. I knew of couples who gave similar benedictions to each other since the September 11th or July 7th terror attacks. Now we did the same, keenly aware our professions took us closer to harm’s way than most. 

I heard the front door close and her car drive off. And I felt my clit twinge almost painfully with a need for release. Knowing Laura always cleaned her “little friend” before replacing it on her bedside table, I rolled over to her side of the bed and retrieved it. It was a palm-size “personal massager”. Small but mighty, as Laura described it. She had me so wet, I had no need for the lube also kept in the drawer, so I twisted it on and got cracking. 

I lightly rubbed it over my hungry sex, groaning as it replaced Laura’s fingers, albeit without her dexterity and encouraging, sensual commentary. Teasing my still-hard nipples with squeezes and flicks, I let the vibrator stroke me from vagina to clit, up and down and, damn, that felt good. I imagined what Laura would be doing to me, which raised my heart rate and respiration and a whimper left my lips, picturing the expression on her face, combining passion, love, self-confidence, cheeky sexuality. 

I needed release. Pressing the head against my clitoral hood, hips rocking, I came hard with a groan. My bones liquified, pinning me to the mattress. Laura’s little friend slid from my grasp, still doing its thing. After a few moments of gulped fresh air, I was able to turn it on. I heard Laura’s voice say “Don’t be greedy, save some for me,” when I mulled over going for a second climax. Sound advice, Hobson, I thought. 

After showering and dressing, I thoroughly cleaned and stowed away our mutual friend in its usual nest. Made coffee, toast and nibbled on some crumbly Black Bomber cheddar whilst perusing the local paper online. Sure enough, their front page offered a brief description of a body found near the Cherwell canal path this morning. Laura’s case, I surmised. 

I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and a couple of brandy glasses from the previous evening, carried on a lengthy conversation with Desmond, who bestowed several kisses on the back of my hand, gentleman that he was. Settling down in one of Laura’s comfortable leather wingbacks, I pulled out my current bear project—a secret one I was working on to give to Laura at some point. She—for I knew it was going to be a girl—would be dressed as Laura had been when we first encountered each other months ago. I’d commissioned Chelsea Carroll to make a Fair Isle waistcoat and was sewing together khakis and puzzling about adding Laura’s men’s analog wristwatch when the woman herself rang. 

“Dr. Hobson, I presume,” I said. “How’s your morning been?” My own Cartier tank watch (once my grandfather’s) showed the time as 1:30 pm. 

Laura sighed. “A garroting of a scholarly journal editor. I just finished the PM and will need to bring home my notes to write up the report this evening. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Feel like meeting me for lunch and stretching your legs before I have to write?” 

I swung by the mortuary to pick up Laura in my car. The sight of her striding toward me caused my heart to skip and my groin to warm. Here I was, a 45-year-old woman, grinning like a uni first-year at a crush. Fortunately, this crush gave me a beautiful smile back and threw her arms around me when she sank into the seat next to me. I leaned across and kissed her, tongue seeking and being granted entry to her mouth. Not too deep, she was at her workplace, after all. 

“Missed you,” she murmured, running her eyes up and down me. “And I’m starving so let’s go.” 

“Now who’s impatient?” I asked, echoing her cheeky remark of that morning. Seat belts secured, I put the car in gear, and off we drove. The early summer sun shone through the sunroof, pinking up our faces while the wind ruffled our hair. We settled on a pub known for excellent burgers on a suburban high street some miles from downtown Oxford. The meal flew by as we conversed about the morning’s murder (keeping our voices lower), Desmond’s antics and my return to work the following Monday. Afterward, we decided to window shop and walk off part of our hit-the-spot meal. 

Browsing through a thrift shop rack, Laura came across some old Aran sweaters she could re-fashion into another blanket and espied a vintage men’s waistcoat. A pale greenish windowpane plaid with subtle black stripes, it had a rather drab black back. She held it up, turned it to and fro and then handed it to me. 

“Try it on, Jill.” I tilted my head and donned it over my crisp white shirt, mostly to indulge her. I found it fit like a dream. I buttoned it up and modeled it for Laura who stood assessing it with her arms folded across her chest and her eyes squinting. 

“Yes, oh yes, Detective Inspector Raymond. This is soooo you. It elevates your usually smart outfits. A little butch, commanding…I love it! I would switch out the back though, maybe change the silk to a rich jewel tone such as sapphire. Yes! That would make it pop all the more, make you even more dashing,” Laura said, and her excitement was contagious. “Please let me buy it for you and give it new life?”   
“You love it, eh?” I murmured close to her ear. “Well, in that case, I will thank you and graciously accept your kind offer, Doctor Hobson.” 

True to her word, Laura did indeed transform the waistcoat into a treasured piece of my wardrobe. I wear it still and have since added several others to it that either Laura has found for me or I’ve picked up and she has restored. Wearing them gives me a little lift on difficult days, adds a dash of polish. I think back to the early days of our relationship and realize how much our love has blossomed still and deepened and feel loved and cherished by the remarkable Dr Laura Hobson. 

***  
By the time we back to Oxford, picked up my car and Jill followed me home, I was ready for a much-overdue shower and an early evening in bed. Jill sat up in bed, covers up just above her breasts, reading, looking tremendously sexy in those black-framed readers of hers. Naughty librarian, another kink I’d developed thanks to Jill Raymond. Wrapped in a thick bath sheet, I walked to my bedside table to fetch the nail file I kept in the drawer. And that’s when I noticed something amiss. 

I looked over at Jill, her nose still in the book. “Should I be jealous?” I asked wryly. 

Jill glanced up, puzzled. “What? No. Why?” 

I picked up my “little friend” and held it out for her to see. A creature of habit, I always place it back in the drawer with the handle toward the outside. There it sat, working end facing out. 

“Oh…” Jill ducked her head and blushed. “I, uh, well, yes, after you left this morning, I er, well…” 

“My little friend became yours as well?” I helped her along as I replaced the vibrator and closed the drawer. Then I crawled into bed and knelt next to her. Before she could respond, I kissed her deeply, thrusting my tongue into her mouth and then nibbled her lower lip triumphantly as my ears registered the mewing sound she made. I marveled then and still do at my capability to unravel the formidable, gorgeous Jill Raymond. My fingers pulled back the covers, exposing her sweet breasts, and then my mouth trailed down to suckle each in turn. Noting she still wore her glasses and had her book still open on her lap, I carefully removed them and placed them on the chair beyond her side of the bed. 

I went back to what I’d been doing seconds earlier but after eliciting another moan from Jill, I stopped and withdrew my hands and mouth. Mouth slack, pupils darkened, she stared at me. 

“Hmm. I don’t at all mind you using my friend; I’m sure you cleaned it off before returning it.” A nod. “I guessed you had used it because you put it back opposite of how I usually do.” A widening of the eyes and an “Ah-ha!” expression. “However…since you’ve already gotten off at least once today, perhaps I should be first…” 

Jill needed no further encouragement. She launched herself at me. Any bashfulness she displayed earlier disappeared, replaced by the sure-fingered, skillful-tongued woman who then ravished me, body and soul. 

She flipped herself and me so she was on top of me, rolling her hips, planting a long thigh between my legs. I still had the towel partly wrapped around me, and she took full advantage of it. She used at the apex of my legs to add a tantalizing bit of friction to her firm pushing, making me moan and squirm to secure better purchase. She pulled back the towel still partly covering my torso and let her tongue lathe and lips pucker against my aching breasts. She growled her own desire as she enrobed my nipple with her warm mouth and sucked, slow, deep pulls that conveyed her need and more than satisfied my own. 

Jill didn’t communicate much verbally during lovemaking as I did (still doesn’t). She poured all of her heart and soul into communicating physically, through fingers, mouth, body, just the right sound here and there that melted me. 

She smiled when she heard my groans and gasps as her fingers plunged into me, her thumb playing with my clit. “Oh God, Jill, yes…fuck me!” And she did, taking me to the edge then pulling back to lick round my belly button and bury her face in my pubic hair, rubbing her nose and mouth through it before her tongue reached out and began delicately unfurling my folds. Her tongue danced through my wetness. 

“Dear God, woman! How did you learn to do that?” I wondered aloud in between moans and pants. No previous lover had come close to the depth and finesse of Jill Raymond in cunnilingus. 

“I-I simply let my mouth convey the love and passion I feel for you,” she whispered huskily, each word punctuated by a lick or suck. She gripped my arse cheeks tighter and I half-screamed as I came, the climax surprising me with its suddenness and intensity. 

Lower face glistening with my juices, Jill raised herself onto her knees and entered me anew, fucking hard and fast, curling her fingertips around inside me until… “Jill, oh yes, oh love, I’m---” and then my body shut off my brain so it would shut up and just rely on my senses. Feel the wetness flowing from me, hear Jill’s rich voice telling me to come for her, smell the heady, smokey-sweet musk of two women fucking. 

When I finally re-surfaced, Jill’s arms around me, her face nestled against my chest, I knew I had to tell her. 

“You may borrow my little friend any bloody time you want.” 

"Aye aye, Doctor H," Jill managed before honk-brays erupted and filled the room.


	59. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jill's back at work with a troubling new case.

I returned to work two days later, eager to take on new challenges. Although Laura hadn’t had time to repair the waistcoat, I liked the idea of adding a layer of extra protection, albeit mostly psychological, to my torso. Over my freshly ironed white shirt, I wore one of Laura’s Fair Isle vests, this one in royal blue. I loved how when I moved my head, I occasionally picked up the scent of her crisp beachy cologne. I treasured that aroma and the memories it retrieved for me. 

The squad greeted me with their usual blend of humor and food: a medieval-looking hernia truss awaited me on my desk along with a box of the local bakery’s best donuts. Jean Innocent grinned when she saw the truss. “Oi, I’d wear gloves to bin that, Inspector. It looks, er, “pre-owned”.” 

The truss and her comment got the response the lads had hoped for—the curled-lip, furrowed-brow look of disgust and disdain that Laura smirkingly refers to as my “Crusty Colonel” face. “Right, who’s claiming this mess?” I asked, pointing to the truss. Getting only guffaws as a collective answer, I shoveled it into the bin with the sleeve of my coat and then opened the box of donuts. I dramatically moaned at the first bite, knowing that would make their tongues hang out. The boys liked their sweets, and they’d remembered I did too. 

“I dunno whether I should share with you grubby lot,” I told them, relishing the immediate hang-dog looks on their faces. “Oh, go on then. And thank you. I missed you daft buggers.” I pulled a freshly ground pound of my favorite coffee blend from my beloved leather briefcase. One of the younger DCs gave me a “Cheers, Guv” and immediately set about making a fresh pot. A chorus of various thank-yous and nods followed, some muffled by mouthfuls of soft, sweet dough. 

Although I said “boys”, the squad also included DC Kit Marsh. I was chuffed to bits to see she was officially assigned to me. DS Quinn had transferred to Bath while I was on medical leave; his wife’s father was sliding into the final stages of Alzheimer’s disease and the move put them close to her parents. I would miss him, but Kit Marsh had proven to be a worthy successor, and I looked forward to our partnership. Kit greeted me with a warm smile and handshake. “Welcome back, Guv…Jill,” she said. 

“It’s good to be back, Kit, and great to be teamed up with you,” I replied sincerely and offered her a donut before the lads could make off with the whole box. Before we could chat more, Jean called to us from her door. Kit picked up her notebook and we walked into the chief superintendent’s office. Although I’d obviously been in there countless times before, this time, I saw the silver-framed photo of Jean Innocent and her wife, Mandy Stevens, as if for the first time. Taken on a Spanish holiday the previous year, it showed the women with their arms wrapped round each other, a coastal sunset behind them. I smiled to myself; surely, Laura and I needed to take a vacation at some point. I realized I didn’t have any photos of us together and made a mental note to remedy that. 

Jean got down to business. A murder had just been called in. The body of an elderly man had been found in a park near a housing estate. SOCO and a medical examiner were on the scene. “Welcome back, Inspector, now off you go!” 

Kit drove; her car was a relatively new, small Toyota SUV. The only personal item in the pristine vehicle was a note taped to the glove box: In beautiful copperplate cursive, someone had written “May God and your Granddad always keep you safe. Love, Gran xxx”. 

“My Gran wrote that to me the day I graduated from the academy. She died quite unexpectedly several weeks later. A stroke,” Kit explained when she saw me reading it. “Keeping that there makes me feel like she’s watching over me. My Granddad had been a copper, killed trying to stop a bank robbery, so she knew the risks.” 

I murmured my belated condolences. “Did you always want to be a police officer?” She grinned as she pulled over behind the Crime Scene tape. 

“Naw. I wanted to be a veterinarian for the longest time. Brought home all sorts of creatures, much to my mum’s dismay. Especially when the ball python escaped. But when I was 16, I read an article about female detectives—including a certain local DS Raymond--and suddenly realized that was what I wanted to do. Who I wanted to be ‘when I grew up’.” 

I stopped cold, with the passenger door half open. I well-remembered that article. The reporter, a uni friend of Gerard’s, interviewed me and several others for the piece that ran in the Sunday edition of the local paper. I took some ribbing from some of the lads but the community’s reception was quite positive. In addition, that year saw an increase in the number of female applicants to the police force. Kit’s comment touched me. This was not the first time a younger detective had referenced the article, but this was the first time I heard it from a direct report and one who’d helped save my life. 

“So, now you know why I had a hard time calling you by your Christian name, Guv. Still do at times,” she added, and, for a moment, I saw the teen-aged girl shyly looking back at me. 

“I hope I can always be worthy of your respect, Kit, and I hope you know it’s mutual.” I said softly. “Now, let’s see what we have, DC Marsh.” 

We picked up and donned our blue-gray crime-scene suits, booties and gloves and saw Laura was the pathologist assigned to the case. This would be the first we’d worked on since becoming a couple. We hadn’t seen each other since yesterday—I’d wanted and needed the evening to myself to physically and mental prepare myself for today. 

“Believe me,” I had reassured her, reinforcing my words with punctuated kisses. “This is not about you. I don’t want you to feel I’m pushing you away. It is about me. I’m used to being on my own and simply need the space to get ready for tomorrow. May I cook you dinner tomorrow night?” 

“Thank you for explaining, Jill. I’d probably feel the same way, but even if I didn’t, I do get it. Maybe your carbonara? It doesn’t have to have lobster this time,” she winked at me. This morning, Laura had called to wish me luck. “Go get ‘em, my blonde bear.” 

“Hiya, Dr Hobson,” I said, trying to keep our meeting professional, as Kit and I stepped into the opaque white crime-scene tent. “What do we have?” 

“Inspector, DC Marsh, good morning,” Laura said, smiling more with her eyes than her mouth in keeping with our location. “His wife ID’d him right here as Maurice Seigel, 76, lives in the housing estate, next street over.” The tent had been erected around a craggy-faced white man with a shock of steel-gray hair, his brown eyes and mouth opened wide in a stunned expression. The body, clad in casual walking attire of trainers, nylon trousers and track-suit jacket with a polo shirt beneath, lay half on its right side. 

“There appears to have been a short struggle before someone managed to strangle him,” Laura continued. “We may find DNA under the fingernails. I estimate time of death sometime after 11 pm last night. His wife is the one who found him around 7 this morning as she drove past going to a yoga-for-seniors class. Apparently, Mr Seigel liked to take late-night walks…and they slept in separate bedrooms due to his heavy snoring,” she explained. 

We all stepped out of the tent. Laura pulled the top half of her white suit off and tied it round her waist. She wore the forest-green waistcoat she’d had on when we first met, along with tan khakis and that chambray blue shirt I liked to borrow. Right, get your mind back to the case, Raymond, I cautioned myself. 

My brow furrowed. The neighborhood of townhomes dated from the 1960s but most homes had been updated over the years. Residents tended to be solidly middle-class, professional types who could feel safe strolling the well-lit, tree-lined streets even close to midnight. 

“PM scheduled?” I asked Laura, somewhat distracted by the why’s behind the case. She said she could do it right away. “Light weekend,” she noted, meaning there’d been few murders or unattended deaths that required a post-mortem exam. 

“Right, should we pick up the coffee or will you make a pot?” I asked and allowed myself a small smile. 

“I won’t say ‘no’ to a caramel latte, even if it’s a bit early in the day,” she grinned back. 

“And you missed out on the welcome-back donuts that the lads bought the Guv this morning. I managed to snag the last one,” Kit informed her, joining in the light-hearted discussion. We all nodded, knowing Kit and I would be stopping for coffee before heading to the mortuary. I also told Laura that we needed to chat with the victim’s wife first, so she said she’d give us an hour before starting. 

The well-maintained Seigel townhome on Wellington Lane offered a pleasant front garden with bountiful varieties of rose bushes and a Victorian garden bench. A man with reddened eyes who looked like a bearded younger version of the victim opened the door and let us in, introducing himself as Daniel Seigel, Maurice Seigel’s son. With a gracious sweep of his arm ushered us into a living room furnished in vintage mid-century modern furniture. A woman about his age sat on the sofa next to a gray-haired woman dressed in stylish leggings, flowing top and open cardigan. Both had been crying too and clutched tissues and mugs of barely touched tea. A black cat with a locket of white fur wove itself between the older woman’s legs. 

“My mother, Valerie, and my wife, Stephanie,” he said, and we all shook hands as DC Marsh and I offered our condolences. We politely declined their offer of tea. Noting that we’d take as little of their time as possible, I began by asking more general questions: how long they’d lived there, were they retired, etc. Maurice Seigel retired several years before from a family insurance firm still run by Daniel. The elder Seigels had moved to the home in the late-1970s as newlyweds, raised their son and daughter (now living in Colorado in the States) there. Generally healthy, they enjoyed gardening, some travel and had several couples they spent time with. 

“Who would do this to Maurice?” Valerie asked, her blue eyes, though shining with unshed tears, pierced into Kit and me. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back in a clasp and she had the still-lithe frame of a younger woman. She described her husband as a caring, thoughtful man without enemies. They would have celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary the following month. 

“That’s what we plan to find out, Mrs Seigel,” I said, standing. “Anything out of the ordinary happen to either of you or in the neighborhood recently?” All three shook their heads. “Right, well, thank you for your time. We will be in touch again, as will our family liaison officer, Alex Witherspoon, who will help you in any way she can. Our deepest condolences again.” 

As we left, Alex strode up the front path. We shook hands, exchanged a few words and left. Liaison officers didn’t have an easy job but Alex was one of the best—considerate and a good cop who believed in helping the family navigate the trauma of a sudden, violent loss as well as keeping the working detectives informed. Of average height with glasses and very close-cropped blonde hair, Alex considered themselves gender-nonconforming. Chief Superintendent Innocent and I joined forces to personally lobby for Alex, then an experienced constable, to get the job when the most recent position came open, knowing that what mattered most to grieving families was the compassion, not the gender, of the liaison who would be their rock in the horrible days ahead.   
Kit drove us to the coffee shop, parked while I grabbed a trio of coffee beverages. Hers, more mellow than her occasional flavored, whipped-cream concoctions, was a caramel macchiato, Laura’s the requested caramel latte and mine a flat white to give me a late-morning pick-me-up. When we arrived in Laura’s office and I handed the sweet-smelling latte to her, I noticed her face had gone pale. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. She took a deep sip of the latte, nodded her thanks and stared at me for a long moment. “What is it, Laura?” 

“Mr Seigel…it could be nothing, but…when Eddie and I removed his clothing and such, we found he had on a pendant.” She picked up a clear plastic evidence bag that was used for personal effects. Inside, besides a gold watch and wedding band, was a gold chain with a circular pendant. “With the initials LJH…” she looked meaningfully at me. 

“Hmm, not his initials, clearly. A relative perhaps? Mother’s maiden name beginning with H?” I wondered aloud. The pendant looked expensive and old but the engraving appeared crystal crisp. Even a well-cared-for pendant of that vintage would have shown some wear around the cursive lettering. 

“Jill…those are my initials. Laura Jane Hobson,” her voice emphatic but soft. “I thought the first one was a coincidence but now—” 

“First one? What do you mean?” Kit and I exchanged puzzled glances. Laura motioned us to the chairs in front of her desk. We all sat. “Remember the garroting I got called out on Saturday morning?” I blushed, recalling that was when I used her “friend”. “Well, that victim, an editor named Sarah Joy Chang, had an ID bracelet, circa the 1980s, with those same initials on it. When her family came in to identify her, I showed them the bracelet—they’d never seen it before.” 

“Ms Chang’s body was found on a canal-side bench, correct?” I asked Laura. She nodded. “So both of these victims were simply going about everyday activities out in the open when they were killed. And found. No care was taken to hide their bodies. The killer or killers seemed to want them to be quickly found. Or perhaps the killers were interrupted and took off. But Laura, those facts alone aren’t enough for us to draw conclusions about a serial killer. You know that.” I spoke kindly but I could see Laura wasn’t having it. 

“Inspector, I know I’m supposed to be the one grounded by science and who discounts intuition, but something tells me these are related and even a message for me.” Laura ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at the ends. I knew that to be a sign of her frustration. “Can you try to look at it from this angle?” 

I thought for a moment. Our relationship aside, I respected Dr Laura Hobson’s professional opinion and her insights. Turning to Kit, I said, “Ok, let’s put our heads together.” Mid-sip of her macchiato, Kit swallowed and nodded. 

I stood because pacing sometimes helps me sort through issues. “If the killer (let’s say one person for the time being) is targeting you, he assumes you’ll be doing the crime scene work and/or the post-mortem so you will see his handiwork. Could be he even attends the crime scene to watch you. We can check CCTV footage but…thinking about the places his victims have been found, neither has a wealth of CCTV coverage. Kit, check these scenes to test out my theory. (She made a note.) And what’s unusual vs traditional serial killers—if you’ll pardon the phrase—is that they usually take souvenirs. He’s leaving you one. Sort of a calling card. In both cases, he’s had or acquired the jewelry and had or done the engraving recently. We’ve worked with the jewelers’ association before and can check with them about recent requests for engraving. (A nod to Kit, another notation made in her notebook.) And we should take these steps even if there isn’t a linkage between the cases.” I paused to reach down and take a sip of my drink, lukewarm now but still rigorously caffeinated. 

Kit spoke up. “Do you feel you need protection, Dr H?” An excellent question. We both looked at Laura, who seemed spooked by the question. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not yet,” she said. She stood, not keen on being the center of attention. “Let’s think on that and in the meantime, why don’t you both change and I can do the post mortem.” 

In the locker room, as I stood in scrub pants and bra, I noticed Kit glancing at my scar and then turning away. “It’s ok, Kit. Healed quite nicely, see?” I turned and gave her permission to look again. Emboldened, she peered at it. 

“Er, it has. Does it bother you?” she asked and then shook her head. “Sorry, incurably nosey, me,” she added as she tugged off her own shirt and replaced it with a scrub top. 

I chuckled. “Not at all. And you should be, Detective Constable.” 

The PM was routine. But for his broken hyoid bone, a tell-tale sign of strangulation, and some arthritic changes to various joints, Maurice Seigel had been a relatively healthy older man. Eddie took scrapings from under the victim’s fingernails and photographed the bruising to the neck and arms that indicated Mr Seigel had fought in vain for his life. There was also some scrapped skin on his knees and palms, which Laura said could indicate that the victim had tripped or fallen forward. If we got lucky and found CCTV footage, we might know which had occurred. 

Once dressed in our proper clothes, I told Kit I needed a moment of Laura’s time. She nodded and said she’d wait in her car. I walked to Laura’s office and she waved me in with a smile. She was still in her scrubs. I closed the door and then walked to take her in my arms. 

“How are you, love?” I asked. I felt her sigh and nestle still closer into me. 

“Concerned, confused, maybe a little scared and hoping we’re wrong about the linkage. Thanks for listening to me, Jill, and being open to considering it. I don’t usually jump to conclusions like this but seeing my initials twice on victims…well, it made the hair at the back of my neck stand on end,” Laura admitted. She gripped my shirt sleeve with one hand, placed the other on my upper chest. I could feel the warmth of her hands through the fabric. 

“Do you want me to stay over tonight at yours?” I asked. She indicated she would. “Right, well, I’ll be in touch as to when I’m likely to get there. On the surface, this case looks straight forward but, as we’ve discussed. Let me talk with Jean Innocent and see what she thinks. I love you, Dr H,” and I reverently kissed her lips. 

“You too, Inspector Raymond,” she murmured, gave me a final squeeze and stepped away. “Be safe.” 

Back at the station, Kit and I brought Jean up to speed. Jean had known Laura for donkey’s years, both professionally and personally. She leaned back in her chair, listening to us relate the facts about the two cases and our concerns about the possible linkage and connection to Laura. I described how we considered investigating them separately—after all, another DI and DC were assigned to the Sarah Chang case—but sharing information. 

Jean spoke up. “Another thing to consider, Jill. If there turns out to be a connection to Dr. Hobson, I’ll need you to hand off the Seigel case another DI, probably Jim Baldrich, who’s already got the Chang investigation,” she said. 

I was stunned by her comments, though I immediately knew she was correct and doing what was best for the investigations—and the victims. Of course I would have to step aside from this case if Laura were found to be the target of the killer’s ire or fascination. It simply hadn’t occurred to me because, well, this was the first time in my career I’d been in love with someone on my side of the criminal justice system, per se. Helen had always been on the defendant’s side, not the prosecutor’s. 

“Jill? Do you have a problem with this?” Jean asked. Without realizing, I’d been frowning while deep in thought. 

“Absolutely not, Ma’am,” I replied, adding the “ma’am” for emphasis and out of respect. “I’ve—well, I’ve never found myself in this situation before.” 

Anticipating Jean’s next comment, Kit “Ma’am, Guv”’d us and excused herself from what would become a private conversation between two more senior officers. Jean nodded in appreciation as she exited, closing the door behind her. 

“I respect that, Jill. I’ve no doubt you’ll do the right thing when and if the time comes. I hope I didn’t give you or DC Marsh cause to think otherwise. How is Laura handling this?” I leaned forward in my seat and explained that Laura was cautiously concerned. “How are you feeling—about this, your recovery? And please, when it’s just us, it’s Jean.” 

“Well, Jean…I feel great, happy to be back. As you may know, I’d already been seeing a therapist on a semi-regular basis and HQ was satisfied for me to continue seeing her post-attack, which I have been, twice a week. Over the moon about being with Laura. She’s—well…” I found myself grinning, thinking of how Dr Laura Hobson had transformed my life, caressed my heart back to love, dusted off and reinvigorated me sexually, allowed me to open myself more completely than ever before. 

“—she’s Laura. I get it, Jill,” Jean returned the grin and I saw a faint blush in her cheeks as if she surmised the depth of my thoughts and love. “She’s been a cherished friend of mine, and Mandy’s, forever. And, though I’d no idea she batted for our team, as it were, I’m chuffed to bits that she’s found love and found it with you,” Jean said. “You two seem so well suited.” Just then, her assistant popped in, reminding her of a lunch meeting with her boss and other high-ranking officers. I thanked her, promised to keep her abreast of the investigation, and took my leave. 

The rest of the day passed quickly, as early days in a new investigation do. We begin unraveling threads, pull some, tug out knots, find some strands abruptly end while others take us in different directions. I relished the thread-pulling but never lost sight of the fact that it came, in our squad at least, as the result of someone’s life having ended prematurely and violently. No good deaths here in the Murder Squad. Laura had emailed me the final PM report—there’d been a surprise. Maurice Siegel had advanced liver cancer. He would have been dead within a few months. 

I called Mrs Siegel, hating to disturb her before our formal interview the next day. Her daughter-in-law answered, indicated that her mother-in-law was sleeping. Their GP, a longtime friend, had made a housecall to deliver a sleeping aid for the widow. Stephanie Siegel gave me his name and phone number from the pill bottle. I thought for a moment. 

“Ms Siegel, may I ask you something in the strictest confidence?” She said yes. “Had your father-in-law complained of any aches or pains recently? Seemed tired?” 

She replied, “Actually, now that you mention it, Maurice had seemed extra tired lately. A bit less appetite too. The other week, Val made one of his favorite roasts for Sunday dinner and she chided him for ‘dieting’. ‘You do enough walking that you don’t need to eat less,’ she told him. He apologized, saying he had helped himself to ice cream and it had filled him up. What does this have to do with his murder, Inspector?” Her question was frank but not rudely asked. 

“Perhaps nothing,” I smoothed over. “Early in an investigation, we like to get as full a picture of the victim’s activities and moods to better understand him or her.” I thanked her and rung off. 

Could it be that none of the Siegels knew of their relative’s terminal condition? Perhaps he himself was unaware or knew but hadn’t wanted to burden his family with such information just yet? 

I called his GP, Dr Harvey Boardman. As I waited for his receptionist to check his availability, Kit returned from her legwork to the jewelers’ association. She held up her notepad to indicate she had some info. I gave her the thumbs-up and she walked over to the brew station to start a fresh pot of coffee using the ground beans I’d brought that morning. The receptionist came back to take my phone and have the doctor get back to me once he finished with his current patient. 

Kit told me the jewelers’ group would put out a memo to their members, asking whether they’d had a customer requesting our specific engraving. The jeweler she interviewed and shown the pendant to (via iPhone photos) confirmed the piece probably dated from the 1970s and said it was indeed possible to strip engraved writing from gold or silver and then engrave it anew. 

We strolled to the coffee pot and I played “Mother”, pouring us each mugs of the aromatic blend. Kit added a splash of milk to each mug and a few spoons of brown sugar to hers. I noticed that DI Baldrich had returned and called out in the otherwise quiet room to see whether he’d like a cup. 

“Oh, you beauty,” he said, and I knew his remark carried no sexual overtones. A solidly built man in his late 50s with more than a passing resemblance to the late Sir Denis Healey in his prime, Jim Baldrich used that expression for men and women alike. Along with “pet” and “love”. That was Jim. He’d been one of the first DIs to offer bears to trauma victims and even donated never-claimed trousers and shirts from his brother’s dry cleaning business so the “poor old darling” who stitched the bears wouldn’t have to lay out money for fabric. 

I handed him a mug of coffee, black with two sugars, (like an idiot savant or reincarnated barista, I seemed to recall each colleague’s coffee preferences), and asked if he had time for a conversation. He did, he said, raising his mug to me with a smile after his first sip.   
I explained about the possible link between our two investigations. He nodded. “Innocent mentioned something about that, yes. And I understand I may wind up taking over your case if there is. Congrats, by the way, Dr H is absolutely lovely and I’m pulling for you both.” 

I thanked him. “May I ask, did Ms Chang’s PM report any signs of serious illness?” He nodded. 

“Yes, actually. Poor woman had recently been diagnosed with an aggressive form of melanoma. It had already spread when she went to her GP about a mole on her back. She lived alone and hadn’t noticed it til her GP saw it during a routine physical and sent her to a consultant oncologist. I spoke with him this morning; apparently, he’d given her only weeks to live on Friday last, poor soul.” 

“And did you find any connection between her and the ‘LJH’ engraved on the bracelet? Laura filled me in this morning when she found our victim had a pendant with the same initials.” 

Jim brought his oversized eyebrows together, giving the appearance that a large furry caterpillar had alighted on his lower forehead. “Nowt,” he said, his native Yorkshire tongue showing itself. “We asked her sister arrived from London to give a formal identification, and our Rishi spoke with a few of her colleagues at the university publication where she worked,” he said, referring to his partner, DC Rishi Patel. 

Just then, my desk phone rang. Dr Boardman returning my call. Yes, he said, Maurice Siegel had come to see him a few weeks back, complaining of excessive fatigue, loss of appetite and a vague gnawing pain in his stomach. When basic bloods showed abnormally high liver enzyme levels and low red-blood cell counts, Boardman had referred his patient to a consultant oncologist. He gave me the name of the cancer specialist. I walked back to Jim’s desk and filled him in. 

“So these murders may not have been randomly chosen victims,” I posited. “Did the sister say whether she knew of Ms Chang’s condition?” Jim shook his head. No, she was unaware. But then the sisters hadn’t been close, he noted. 

I sighed. “Jim, it’s looking more like you’ll be handling both of these cases. We should meet with the Chief Super when she gets back.” 

“Aye,” he said solemnly. “I’ll take care of your Dr H, rest assured.” He clasped his bear paw of a hand on my shoulder with a gentleness that always surprised me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to keep the murder scenes and post-mortem details much as they would be shown during a "Morse" or "Lewis" episode--that is to say, with limited gory details. 
> 
> Fun fact: I actually interviewed Sir Denis Healey when I was a young newspaper reporter. He was quite lovely and sent me an autographed copy of his book on photography. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, for your feedback and patience.


	60. Chamomile and Sweet Orange

Those two cases rattled me. Truly. To think that someone might be either using me as a pawn or as an excuse to brutally kill people shook me to my core. Jean Innocent had called to check on me and fill me in on the status of the investigations, including that they were treating them as linked and that Jill was no longer leading the most recent investigation due to our relationship. We all knew that the last thing a case needed was the appearance of favoritism or even a wiff of compromise. 

When Jill called at the end of her day to check on me, I’d already come home and soaked in a hot bath, lit candles circling the tub as if they could ward off evil. You up for company and a home-cooked meal, she asked, and the tenderness in her voice almost made me weep. Always, I assured her. About an hour later, she arrived with a bouquet of flowers (she’d made sure none were poisonous for cats) and the makings of spaghetti carbonara. She wouldn’t let me do anything except make us both gin and tonics. As much as she told me to sit and relax, I only wanted to be with her. Somehow, she managed to crisp the bacon, boil the pasta and whip up the decadent comfort food whilst I hugged her from behind, fingers gently stroking her tummy as a child would a stuffed bear. 

“You’re not going to worry a hole in me, are you?” she asked softly as she stilled my hand by taking it in hers. She turned me in her arms so, while the pasta’s egg mixture set for a few minutes, she could hold me face to face. Her fingertips, which bore a hint of smokiness from the bacon, rubbing my scalp for a quick massage. 

“Heaven’s no! We just got the last hole stitched up,” I noted, trying to keep my tone more playful than I felt. I tucked my head under her chin and breathed in the warm scent of her oak moss cologne. I could feel her heart beating strong and true and see a few of the freckles dusting her upper chest where her shirt collar was open. 

She carried the pasta bowls to the table while I brought the parmesan for grating and the pepper mill. Suddenly, I was famished. Jill may have had only a handful of dishes in her cooking repertoire but the ones she did have, well. She cooked them nearly as well as she made love. I couldn’t grind pepper and shred the hard, nutty cheese fast enough for my renewed appetite. Jill smiled indulgently at me. 

“Easy, tiger. The carbonara’s not going anywhere and neither am I,” she lightly teased me then grinned as I forked in a mouthful and groaned with satisfaction. “Just remember to kiss the cook later.” I nodded and grinned back at her. We ate in companionable silence, happily twirling the thin strands on our plates, sipping the crisp drinks. From time to time, we’d hold hands. Finally pushing back our empty plates, we loaded the dishwasher and then snuggled together on the sofa under a blanket. 

“How are you, Laura? Really?” she asked as she held me close. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I explained how the murders and the linking with my initials on the jewelry unnerved me. This had never happened to me. I’d seen police officers targeted by stalkers and poison-pen letter writers, but not a forensic pathologist like me. I told her that Jean had called to brief me on the latest details, including her removal from the Siegel case. 

“Are you ok with that?” I wondered. Jill assured me she was. As much as she disliked giving over a case, she said she knew it was the proper and ethical way to preserve the investigation’s integrity. Moreover, she added, she liked and trusted Jim Baldrich as a top-notch professional, thorough and fair detective inspector. We batted around a couple of theories as to the murderer’s motive and background. Was he a mercy killer with a warped need for attention? Why did he add the tokens with my initials—did monogrammed jewelry have some significance to him? How did he know these victims had fatal conditions? 

Jill informed me that Jean planned to pull in the Met’s profiling unit for greater insight and direction. Jill rubbed my arms and gave them a loving squeeze. 

“Hey, is this helping? Perhaps I should do something to take your mind off this situation, hmm?” she asked. 

“You’re even better than your carbonara,” I complimented her. “But I’m not sure I’m in the mood…” 

She cleared her throat, a sign I’d learned that she was probably blushing and kissed my hair. “Ha, well, not quite what I meant…What about a back rub to relax you? Nothing sexual, just a bit of oil and my hands to get out the day’s knots,” she offered. 

I smiled at her thoughtfulness. “That sounds absolutely smashing. Here or the bedroom?” Jill indicated the bedroom would be easier on us both. I experienced a fleeting moment of shyness as I pulled off my loose cardigan and soft old t-shirt. I pointed to my sweat pants—these too? Jill shrugged, said it was up to me. Off they came, though I left on my knickers, easing them down at my lower back without exposing the crack of my arse (anatomically known as the “intergluteal cleft”). I lay face down with my head resting on my forearms. 

I could hear Jill shucking her trousers and the whisper of wool and fabric as her/my waistcoat and her shirt came off. Opening my eyes, I saw she’d also lit a couple of small tea lights in glass jars that I’d used earlier in the en-suite. She stood next to the bed on my side, wearing her black cotton knickers and sports bra. With her toned, lithe figure, Jill Raymond made them look like the sexiest undergarments in the world. 

“Ok I straddle you,” she asked. I nodded. She did so, grunting lightly as she got into the best position. Jill hadn’t given me anything other than a days-end foot massage—which had served as foreplay to lovemaking—so I had no idea what to expect. I heard her rubbing her palms together and then felt the exquisiteness of her hands lightly applying and spreading the oil to my tense back muscles. She informed me she was using grapeseed oil as a carrier oil, with a few drops of chamomile and sweet orange essential oils for their relaxing properties. She could have coated me with lard and I wouldn’t have cared…her touch felt so damned good. After swirling the fragrant oil over my entire back, she applied feather-light, hand-over-hand movements down the center of my spine, from neck to sacrum. I felt glued to the mattress and released a wobbly deep breath I hadn’t known I was holding. 

Then she dragged her knuckles up and down the still-corded erector spinae muscles on either side of my spine, adding palm compressions to increase blood flow and separate connective tissue and muscle fibers. I think I moaned then grunted as her fingertips began kneading the deeper layers of musculature. 

“Is this ok?” she inquired, pausing to add more oil. The light scent added to my melting relaxation. 

“Oh God yes, Jill. Please don’t stop,” I managed. It was all I could do to stay awake. I lost track of time and then sunk into a quasi-conscious state; I felt Jill’s hands continue to loosen my tight muscles but was nearly asleep. I couldn’t have moved if the Queen popped in for tea. And then…

I woke as Jill applied a warmed towel to my back and compressed it to take off any excess oil. At least 30 minutes had passed since we’d entered the bedroom. I stirred, a slurry smile on my lips. 

“Ah, welcome back, my love,” Jill greeted me as she removed the towel. She’d already gotten off the bed and was then gathering up her magical supplies. “How do you feel?” 

“Do you have to ask?” I wiped my mouth to make sure I wasn’t drooling. “My God, is there no end to your talents? Where did you learn to give a massage like that?” I slowly sat up as she handed me my t-shirt and I pulled it on. 

“Lulu and I took a class a while back. This was the first time I’ve put what I learned to use so I’m a bit rusty,” Jill admitted. I walked over to her and hugged her tight. 

“Well, it didn’t show. Thank you for that incredible experience, sweetheart,” I didn’t even try to stifle the yawn that stretched my mouth wide open. “I am ready for the Land of Nod.” After padding to the bathroom to take care of pre-bedtime needs, I shuffled back a few minutes later and slid into bed next to Jill. She had stripped and wore only her “naughty librarian” reading glasses as she read through a forensic journal geared toward police officers. She peered at me over the journal and smiled. 

“Shall I turn my light out and lay down too? May I hold you as you fall asleep,” she asked, pulling off her glasses and placing them and the dog-eared journal on the chair next to her side of the bed. 

I murmured my approval of those offers and, cuddled against the warmth of her bare chest, I lasted no more than a minute before sleep weighed me down like an anchor.


	61. Wool, Paper and Oak Moss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jill gives Laura a gift. (Warning for mature content.)

The next morning, I was up and out by 6 am. I was due in court by 9 am, ready to testify on a case that slowly wended its way to the trial phase of justice. I needed to drive home, shower, change and collect some sewing project items for my inevitable sat-in-the-hallway downtime. 

I smiled as I left Laura. She looked downright angelic, albeit an angel that softly snored. It’d felt so wonderful to be able to help her unwind, to be there for her on so many levels. I loved feeling her sinew and fascia soften with trust, her mind calm as her body exhaled the bitter tension and fear of the past few days. Her love, her life, her safety, especially right then, meant the world to me. Still do. 

As I negotiated the quiet streets, I tried not to dwell on the times I hadn’t been “there” for previous girlfriends, physically and certainly not emotionally. Fear—of commitment, of love not being reciprocated, of being vulnerable, of the pain—had stopped me in my tracks countless times in other relationships like a deer at an active railway crossing. 

If I did not grant Helen and a few before her access to several boxes of my compartmentalized life, my childlike subconsciousness reasoned, they couldn’t weaponize what they found against me. We never remember exactly what deep, soul-searing pain feels like; our mind-body connection protects us from that. However, fear of pain can prevent us from getting a sore tooth seen to…or prevent us from loving utterly, completely, down to our very marrow. 

With the help of my therapist , Al-Anon as well as several insightfully written books, I had been able to look at the fear, its origins in my childhood loss of my mother, of her alcoholism, of being the “different” little girl without a mummy. I began to cut through the web of fear that had cocooned my heart and mind. I learned I bore no blame for her disease or her death. I learned, though too late for previous loves, that I could let the right person in those compartments within my heart. I did this first with Lulu, Hal and Becca, though, Becca hardly counted in that way. I was an open book to her from the moment I held her in my arms that first day in hospital and introduced myself as her “Auntie Jill”. 

I pulled up my drive and dashed up to the house and inside, flinging off clothing as I went. I didn’t bother with warming a towel, this would be a quick shower. I was rinsed off, dried off, dressed and out the door—having collected a waxed canvas tote of the supplies needed for my sewing project—within 25 minutes. A record even for me. Laura no doubt would have laughed. She chided me for my luxuriously long showers. Of course, if she was in said shower stall with me, no wonder, I huffed back. The thought of our showers together made me smile as I drove to the court building and stopped at the ground-floor café for a pain au chocolat and a flat white. 

I had been working on a gift for Laura. I imagined it would be a “just because” present but felt the time was right to give it to Laura sooner rather than later. She had been there for me; this was a small way I could give back to her. A token of my love, affection and presence. 

I knew my case wasn’t the first of the day and that my testimony wouldn’t be the first up so I’d have down time outside the courtroom. Sure enough, I was able to finish my file review, eat and drink and finish the project before I was called right after the lunch break. 

When my testimony for the prosecution was completed an hour later, the justice adjourned for the day owing to a family emergency for the defendant’s QC. I’d be back the next day for cross examination. Getting in my car, I dialed Laura’s assistant, Leo Merton, who greeted me warmly. I didn’t need to speak to her but was Dr Hobson around? Oh, she had an off-site meeting but was definitely returning? Excellent. Could I leave something in her office for her? Wonderful. I’d be right round. 

While not telling him the nature of the gift for Laura, I swore Leo to secrecy. “Mum’s the word, Inspector,” he said, miming the lips-are-locked motion. “And if you consider adopting anyone, I hope I’m not too old,” he remarked cheekily. 

“I’ll keep you at the top of my list, Mr Merton,” I assured him with a smile and a wink. 

***  
When I returned to my office that afternoon, worn to a nub by a too-long policy meeting, I kicked off the low-heeled pumps my suit demanded. Leo handed me a freshly brewed mug of my favorite coffee and updated me as I crossed my office to my desk. He smiled as he closed the door behind him, knowing I had some follow-up calls to make and, as he told me later, happy for me to see whatever Jill had dropped off on my chair. Swiveling my chair around from its wall-facing direction, I gasped.   
There, looking dapper and cuddly at the same time, sat an adorable pale tan teddy bear, smaller than the usual ones Jill crafted. This fluffy coated bear, which wore a blue dress shirt, a muted plaid waistcoat, and black trousers, also had a tiny pair of glasses tucked into the V of the waistcoat. Just like its maker often wore. In front of its sweet little paws lay a small envelope with my name on the front in Jill’s scrawled, cursive-hybrid handwriting. I read the card and tears of joy and tenderness filled my eyes. Jill had reversed Paddington Bear’s “Please take care of this bear” slogan.

“My darling Laura,   
Since I can’t be here to give you a hug 24/7, I hope this mini “blonde bear” will serve as a worthy substitute and take good care of you in my absence. I love you with all my heart,   
Jill xxx

A sob escaped my lips as I cradled the precious bear close to me. Was it my imagination or had her stitching given it a slightly lopsided smile like the one that often graced her own face? I breathed in, smelling wool and even a lingering hint of her cologne. That dear, sweet woman. Wiping back tears and blowing my nose, I dialed her number. 

“Hello you,” she said, her voice like warm silk. I could hear the smile on her face. 

“Oh Jill, she’s the most adorable creature I’ve ever seen…besides you, of course. I feel like a little girl on Christmas morning! And her waistcoat and glasses…I’m already in love with her…and love you all the more for making her for me. Thank you, darling,” I felt like I was babbling, but Jill chuckled affectionately. 

“I’m so happy you like her—” 

“I more than like her! I love her!” I fervently cut in. “She is the sweetest, most darling gift I’ve ever received. When in the world did you find time to make her?”   
Jill explained that she’d been working on the bear’s outfit for a while, so she had a jump on it and managed to finish it that morning while waiting to be called. She had been experimenting with smaller-sized bears, which she thought might make storing them easier. “Your ‘mini JR’ is Smaller Bear 1.0, a rare collectable,” she added with self-effacing humor. 

“I’m rather in love with the prototype who crafted her,” I told her, making the little one dance and soar in my hand before pulling her in for another cuddle. “Where are you, home?”   
Jill said she was back at the squad, prepping for the next day’s court re-appearance and touching base with Kit Marsh about an older case. She asked what time I was getting done, would I like company or did I need some alone time. 

“How does me picking up some Chinese takeaway and having you over sound?” She agreed it sounded like a plan but offered to do the picking up. Who was I to argue? It would give me time to straighten up, clean up after Desmond, whose hobby was kicking litter out of his box, and take a quite shower. 

When Jill arrived around 6:30 with Szechuan Beef, Prawns with Cashews in Garlic Sauce and spring rolls, I took the fragrant, warm bags from her, put them on the foyer table and pinned her to the inside of the door. I needed her. Badly. Achingly. 

Standing on tiptoes, I kissed her deeply, passionately, giving a sexy little growl as my tongue sought entry to her mouth. Jill moaned her need as her lips parted and her own tongue swirled around mine. I carefully peeled off her suit jacket and barely taking my mouth off hers, draped it over the foyer chair. Next came the dress shirt, though with that I simply opened the buttons, planting devotional kisses in nearly a “blessing” pattern across her fantastic clavicles and down the center of her chest. Blessings indeed, I thought, as I licked the tops of her breasts. She moaned again and fumbled to yank her shirt out of her trousers and pull it off. The bra, a formal one rather than her everyday sports model, I unhooked and tossed on the chair with a lucky throw. My lips kissed each breast and then settled onto the left, gently sucking because I knew how sensitive Jill’s nipples could be. She whimpered, murmured “Yes, oh God, yes,” and cupped the back of my head with her hand as encouragement. With her other hand, she cupped my mons through my loose-fitting yoga pants, eliciting a moan out of me that vibrated into her breast. 

“No, my turn,” I said, gently batting her hand away. “I need this, Jill. Is that ok?” 

“Carry on then,” she panted. “I’m all yours.”


	62. Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains explicit F/F activity.

And I was completely Laura’s. Such a simple and yet profound statement. Born of passionate intensity but deeply accurate in the light of day too. 

That evening, our stomachs’ needs took a back seat to our carnal desires. Specifically, Laura’s. For I knew in my core that she, as she urgently said, she did need to take me. It was not about control but rather about “taking” as a form of giving, of devotion, of appreciation. I think, too, on some subconscious level, it was Laura needing to confirm that the gift of the bear and my attention was real and tangible. Like a touchstone or two. 

She pressed her thigh firmly against the apex of my trouser legs, rotated it ever so slowly, while her mouth performed acts on my breasts that made my legs buckle. Forcing my groin to rest even more heavily, achingly on her muscular quad muscles. “Dear God, Laura…” I gasped and tried to rutt against her leg. But she removed her thigh. 

“You’re mine,” was all she said before kissing my mouth so passionately that I forgot everything else. (Leg? What leg?) Then her hands, large for a petite woman with a gymnast’s physique, busied themselves at my breasts again, tweaking nipples, teasing them with the surface of her palms whilst staring into my face to watch my reaction. Her tongue replaced her hands, which drifted down my stomach and slid into my then unzipped-but-still-on trousers and inside my knickers to gently tap against my thatch of hair and engorged clit. I moaned as her tapping matched the fiercely strong pulsing of my clit. 

Her fingertips dove downward to find me wet, so fucking wet. She tucked her first two fingers into my open channel, with an ease and skill that surpassed her length of experience loving a woman, and snugged them up to my G-spot like a Cherwell narrowboat kissing the canal side. My eyes fluttered open then closed tightly with the exquisite sensation.   
“You’re so gloriously wet for me, darling, just the way I like it,” she purred, and she slowly sunk and then pulled out and sunk again and again into my depth. 

“You.rather.have.that.effect.on.me,” I breathed out in grunts. Then she brought her teeth back to my tender nipples and tugged them in turn into the melting heat of her mouth. She caught me against her as my knees threatened to give way. 

“Right, let’s get you to the sofa, shall we,” she guided me. Eyeing my socks, knickers and trousers, she remarked that I still had “far too much clothing on” for her liking and plans. She paused. “On the other hand, for now, let’s only pull the trousers down past that sweet, firm arse of yours.” She slid my trousers down over my bum. I felt exposed. Tremendously excited, horny—almost feverishly so—not embarrassed but vulnerable. The horniness won out. Laura smiled wolfishly at me as she walked around me, plotting her next move. 

She told me to face the sofa and lean forward, resting my hands on its back, whilst spreading my legs a bit. “You know, don’t you, that I’ve seen a number of men and women—women whom I had no idea were Sapphically inclined—ogle your bottom as you walk down the hall. Excuse me, not walk, strut. That macho detective inspector strut of yours. I noticed that fairly quickly, you know. God, what it did for me. Still does. But they can look all they want because you belong to me. All of you. Including these luscious cheeks,” she confirmed, squeezing them like melons in a farmer’s market stall to assess their ripeness. I whimpered with the knowledge of her anecdote as well as what her hands were doing to me. Bloody hell. 

She reached down between my legs from behind, stroking possessively, fingers gliding. Suddenly, I felt something sharp on my right buttock. I yelped reflectively and heard a soft chuckle at my waist level. Laura’d bitten me. Lightly enough not to leave a mark or break skin, strong enough to penetrate my aroused state. 

“Mine,” said Dr Laura Hobson, before soothing the bite with the flat of her tongue. 

“Absolutely,” I managed in between quickened breaths. “Body and soul.” 

I wondered how much long my legs would support me. Laura may have thought the same, for she then entered me from behind, crouching down to crook her fingers into me, fucking me hard and fast once she was certain she was in the right position and at the proper angle. She hadn’t taken me like this before and God it felt good, her first two knuckles thumping against my throbbing clit. She had me so damned turned on that within a minute or so, I came with a deep groan and a gush of juices. I slumped forward onto the sofa, my trousers and knickers still round my thighs, my breath coming in gasps. Laura held me close as I wiped a few tears from my eyes and moaned with a series of core-clinching aftershocks. After several minutes, I sat up, a bit embarrassed by the state of my clothes, now somewhat soggy and wrinkled. I rather felt wrung out and grungy too. 

“Uhm, would you mind terribly if I took a quick shower? I feel a bit of a mess right now,” I explained and felt all fuzzy and warm when I saw Laura sniff her fingers and grin mischievously at me. 

“Well, I did rather ambush and then ravish you,” she acknowledged, her smile a bit shy. “By all means, do. I’ll leave a change of clothes for you on the chair in the bathroom and warm the food in the meanwhile." 

As I lathered up under the hot water, I saw Laura enter the room and deposit a favorite t-shirt and sweats on the chair for me. She gave me a long once-over as I stood, breasts and pubic hair covered by thick suds. 

“See something you like, Dr Hobson?” I flirted, running my soapy hands over my nipples. 

“Oh, I had better leave now before I take you again,” she said, her voice thick with lust, before hurrying from the steamy room.


	63. Sunshine and Aloe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature F/F content. 
> 
> The women enjoy a relaxing day. Sorry for the delay. Our Desmond, the model for Laura's cat, was put to sleep this past week. His mums are heartbroken but he lives on in our hearts and this story.

The rest of the work week passed in a blur of court time, the start of a new murder case for DC Marsh and me and Jim Baldrich making steady progress on the investigation we thought of as “Laura’s Stalker”. Jim kindly filled me in (in the presence of Jean Innocent). Laura kept asking me to sleep over at hers each night. 

“Aren’t you tired of my mug yet?” I texted during one late-afternoon chat as we planned the evening. She responded with a tongue-out, winking emoji. 

“You know I can’t get enough of you,” she added. I suddenly felt as if I were sitting at my desk naked. 

“That’s it,” I countered, as quickly as my thumbs could type. “I’m DEFINITELY ringing Lulu to tell her YOU’RE the one with the unquenchable sex drive.” Winking emoji. 

At her home later, snuggled together on the sofa, Laura admitted she wasn’t used to “needing” someone. Physically, but especially emotionally, she explained. The latter feeling was new to her—wonderful but new. I assured her I knew the feeling. Part of it was the cocooning many couples do at the beginning of a relationship. Some might be related to the investigation. Whatever was behind it, it felt right, I told her, kissing her soft, blonde hair, rubbing her arms as I spooned her from behind. 

With an affirming “Mer-ow!” Desmond apparently concurred as he hopped up to cuddle against us, coating us with a shedding of his thick white fur. 

“Oi, Bunny!” I complained. His mum knew I wasn’t angry but the easily startled big chap needed some reassuring. I pulled him onto Laura’s lap so we both could pet him. After a few minutes, his touchy feline side reemerged and he wanted to stretch out by our bare feet and groom himself. I wiggled my toes against his fur. Laura turned round to give me an incredulous look. 

“Slow learner, are you?” she accused, swatting my feet away from Des, who suddenly showed an interest in my exposed toes. 

I laughed when I remembered the Eeyore plaster she’d put on my big toe after Desmond had sunk his fangs into it. “My hero!” I countered. 

The following Saturday, I planned a little outing for us. I stopped by mine that morning—after some deliciously slow love-making—took care of a few odds and ends, showered, changed and drove back to Laura’s. 

***

Jill returned, looking wonderfully soft-butch in a navy vest topped by a well-loved tattersall shirt, her skinny black jeans and those lime-green Converse. The shirt sleeves were rolled and cuffed in a quasi-military fashion, showing off her sinewy forearms and their dusting of freckles. She looked good enough to eat. 

She wore a small surplus Army bag across her chest and carried a plaid blanket that was rolled and strapped snuggly. She grinned broadly as I walked out the door, ready for whatever she had planned. I realized that I had always noticed her attire, even from our first encounter. That should have told you something, Hobson, I thought. I didn’t usually pay attention to what female friends wore, except to compliment them on a particularly stunning blouse or handbag. I guess I was more gay than I admitted to myself, I smiled as I settled myself next to her. Jill had said to “dress for adventure” so I wore stretchy jeans, a t-shirt and a cotton sweater that I knotted round my waist. Along with a new pair of orange Converse low-tops with black laces that Jill had bought me when we spotted them in a shoe store window some weeks back. 

“Welcome to the family,” she had said, giving me a long, slow kiss outside the shop. Like a 6-year-old, I’d insisted on wearing the new trainers—excuse me, “sneakers”, as the Americans referred to their Converse—out of the store. Gallant as ever, Jill carried the bag with my old shoes. 

After a generous “Missed you” kiss, Jill pulled her aviator sunglasses down over her eyes and we drove off. The day was one of those perfect June Oxford days, so she opened the sun roof. We lowered the windows—a benefit of the ’96 Jetta versus my newer, more aerodynamic Volvo, which tended to get quite noisy when the windows were down. We held hands except where traffic required both her hands on the wheel or the left to shift gears. I didn’t mind; it gave me a chance to study the long slender, ringless fingers, the neatly trimmed nails, oh, what pleasures they had brought me, those hands. Stopped at a light, Jill caught me staring at her hands. 

“Just admiring the view,” I flirted, seeing my reflection tinted silver by the mirrored sunglasses. Jill leaned over and bussed my cheek. “Light changed. And watch out for the cyclist coming up behind you.” 

“Passenger-seat driving, are you, Hobson?” Jill smirked as she focused back on the road. 

“Sorry, bad habit,” I muttered, more chagrinned than Jill’s light tone warranted. When did I morph into my mother, I wondered with an inward cringe of horror. Did the stress of the LJH investigation bring out a need to control things? I’d spoken to Dad several days ago; she was slowly recovering some movement on her dominant right side from the stroke suffered several weeks ago. Dad had arranged for a full-time carer in their home, thank goodness, so he didn’t bear the full burden of tending her. Sad thought it was to say, at least Mum’s speech was gone so she had to write everything down, which took some of the sting out of her verbal abuse. I doubted they would have kept even the most saintly caregiver otherwise. 

But for a brief visit, shortly before Jill’s attack, I had not been to see my mother since the stroke. Mum had been semi-conscious then so I had focused on my father’s needs and made as hasty an exit as I could. I had no desire to see her or spend time with her. Hadn’t before the stroke, so I saw no reason (despite what my sister thought) to change my mind. Bea was six years younger and the golden child who bore more of a resemblance to our mother. She didn’t directly see the emotional abuse our parent had metered out on me. Narcissistic parents are like that: to the rest of the world, they could be the perfect professional and parent, always there for school events, always sacrificing for their children. Other parents and even sometimes other children would only see the side Dr Hazel Hobson wanted them to. They weren’t there when the snarled put-downs, undermining of self-confidence and self-esteem and a occasional arm-pinch were present. 

“Laura, love, what is it? Did my comment upset you?” I came out of my nasty little day dream to find Jill had pulled off the road, stopped the car and was staring at me, glasses pushed up on her head. Her hazel eyes squinted from the sunshine, the three vertical lines between her eyebrows conveying her concern. 

I shook my head. “No, you did nothing wrong. I-I was…I realized my mum would critique Dad’s driving and was afraid I was doing the same and then it brought me back to my childhood…” I stopped, realizing a few tears had fallen down my face. The pain leaking out, I suppose. Jill wiped them away with a gentle thumb. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “Do you want to talk about it?” No, I didn’t want that to ruin our day. We could talk about it another time, I told her. Fishing a tissue from a packet she found for me in the glove box, I cleaned myself up. 

“Right, well, we’re nearly there,” she offered, her voice sympathetically gentle. Another quick kiss and we were off again. A few minutes later, Jill pulled into a canal-side car park for a business that rented kayaks and canoes. We both grinned. Oh this sounded like just what we needed! 

“Anyone can rent a punt, and on a beautiful day like today, the Cherwell in Oxford will be packed with first-timers,” Jill noted as she closed the sun roof but for an inch or so. “This section of the canal is quieter even on a lovely afternoon. I thought we could get a canoe. They seat two and you can relax while I paddle, hmm?” 

I got out of the car and crossed the back to stand next to her. “This.is.perfect! Thank you for thinking of it.” I hugged her snuggly and placed a light kiss on her lips. We walked to the rental office, shoulders touching. 

The owner, a stocky man in his fifties who introduced himself to me as Charlie, greeted us warmly. It turned out his business was yet another that Hal’s firm had helped with seed money and guidance. Later, Jill told me the owner, who she had met years ago when his teenage daughter got in trouble, made a point of hiring non-violent offenders who were on parole for his business. Then in her mid-thirties, his daughter was happily married with two pre-teen and helped run the boat rental during weekday shifts while her kids are in school. Charlie handed off the front desk to a younger man and walked us to where the boats were launched, in a small alcove-like inlet off the canal proper. 

He found lifejackets for us; Jill, an old hand apparently, fitted hers and helped me secure mine. He and young woman held the two-seat canoe against the dock so we could clamber into it. The woman passed Jill a couple of cold bottles of water, which she slipped into her bag. Charlie told me I could sit on the floor—here, Jill produced the blanket she’d brought and laid it in front of the forward of the two seats and draped it over the seat—or on the seat. With Jill’s encouragement, I sat on the blanket, resting my back against the seat. Jill eased herself onto the seat at the back, thanked them for the paddles (one for me, should I decide to participate), and used the tip of the red paddle to push us away from the dock.

The green vessel glided away, and how could I not feel tranquility wash over me? We tucked as we traveled under a foot bridge and then were on the canal itself. Jill paddled us away from the busier section, to a stretch of canal with only a couple of kayaks and farther down one canoe could be seen. The pace unhurried, the sounds gentle as cool water lapped at the canoe’s sides and Jill’s paddle dipped and pushed, dipped and pushed. The sun dappled on the water through old trees near the canal path. A few couples sat on benches or strode along the path with a leashed dog. 

“You ok up there?” Jill asked. I turned and looked behind at her. Her arms moved with such simple but strong grace. 

“Mmmm, you really do know how to show a girl a good time,” I cheekily told her. But, relaxed as I was, I’m sure it came out less sassily than it might otherwise have. “Really, Jill, this is beyond wonderful. Have you come here before?” 

“I like to come here several times during the summer. It’s a great way to get away without going far and helps me relax. But, uh, I’ve never taken anyone else here before today.” The last sentence soft with meaning. She had shared another part of herself with me, one no one else was privy to. 

“I’m honored,” I replied sincerely. I wanted to reach back and kiss her but didn’t want to land us in the canal so I settled for blowing her a kiss. She pretended to catch it. Feeling rather sleepy, I turned around in my cozy perch and shuffled down to rest my head on the seat. Within a moment or two, I dozed off. 

Quacks from a group of ducks being fed canal side woke me with a start. I glanced at my watch and saw a good 30 minutes had passed. Sitting up and stretching, I felt refreshed and in a much better mood than when we’d been driving. 

“Easy does it, Laura,” Jill’s calm voice called. “It’s ok. How about a snack for us? I can promise it’s not crackers!” Here she honked, causing a few ducks to take to the sky to get away from the strange sound. 

“I don’t think the bird-call whistle business will be requiring your employment after all,” I joked with a snigger. She gave me a look of mock-hurt and then honked again. She reached into the surplus bag and pulled out a carton of ruby-red strawberries, some bigger than an espresso cup, along with a plastic jar of Nutella and a spoon. 

“Just a little nibble to hold us over til later,” she said, offering me a few strawberries tucked into a bandana as well as the container and spoon. I dipped the spoon into the chocolatey spread and spread it over a strawberry. Holding it by the stem, I bit into it and moaned. The berry was at its seasonal peak, the sweet, firm flesh delightful with the hazelnut-cocoa flavor. 

“Oh Jill! This is marvelous! Here, let me fix you one!” I prepared a strawberry for her and carefully turned so I was kneeling on the blanket facing her. She stopped paddling, rested the paddle across her thighs, and leaned forward, mouth open to receive it. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about seeing her mouth open like early this morning when she stretched over me and lowered her open mouth to capture one of my nipples. Fortunately, Jill managed to pull the strawberry into her mouth before I could bobble it. 

“Mmmm, perfectly ripe,” she said huskily. Her tongue swept out to lick off a dab of Nutella that had stuck to her lower lip. I noticed she had shed the tattersall shirt and wore the life jacket directly against her vest. Her toned biceps and deltoids shone with a light sheen of sweat and her face had pinked a little from the sun and exertion. A dusting of sun-activated freckles popped up under her clavicles. A trickle of sweat skidded down between her breasts, which her forward lean had given me a delicious glimpse of. I felt more like myself. Not for the first time that day did I long to fuck Jill Raymond. Or be fucked by her.

“Well, if we’re playing ‘I Spy’, I think I found something else that matches that description,” I responded, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on her chest. 

She gave me a lopsided, wide-mouthed smile. “And I see someone’s recovered her naughty side. The side that (there she leaned forward and whispered) well and truly fucked me this morning.” 

At the sudden sound of a band of tween-age boys whooping up the canal path in a spirited game, we both blushed though we knew our comments couldn’t be overheard. Jill cleared her throat, tugged her sunglasses back over her eyes, let a smile play at the corners of her mouth. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better, darling.” 

We polished off the rest of the berries, with a final finger swipe of spread, I screwed the lid back on the Nutella and Jill tucked it back into her bag along with the berry stems and bandana. She pushed off the canal edge and we were off again. On the journey back to the rental place, we chatted casually, steering clear of work-related topics. Jill told me her aunts had emailed to ask for a visit—specifically requesting “the pleasure of your company too, my dear”. Perhaps we could sort out a couple of dates that might work for us both and get back to them? Of course, I said. After all I’d heard of them and her father, I was eager to make their acquaintance. 

I had a similar request, I shared, from Miss Katie, my crafting mentor and friend. With Jill’s permission, I had told Katie about Jill helping with the bear campaign but not the precise nature of her involvement. My old friend also looked forward to meeting my love and a fellow bear enthusiast. Katie had a few well-kept Steiff bears from her childhood. Katie was not at all surprised I was love with a woman. She couldn’t say why, just that “it seems right, pet”. 

As for our next meal, Jill told me she had received a great recommendation for a Hampton Poyle restaurant known for its steak and burgers. They had a more formal fine-dining area as well as a casual outdoor seating area with umbrellas. While we both tried to eat healthy, an occasional burger and chips was good for the soul, I assured her. And she had certainly burned more than her share of calories propelling us around. 

Time passed slowly on the water, but before we knew it, we were back at the launching dock and two young men were steadying the canoe and helping us to climb back onto the dock. We had been out on the water for two hours of pure relaxation. 

Jill drove us to the restaurant, where we both opted for the more casual fare of burgers under the shade of an umbrella. We drank shandys and tore into our meals with a hunger that comes from being outdoors. I noticed Jill’s chest was pink from the exposure—neither of us had thought to bring sunscreen—and, when we got back to mine, and she stiffly removed her button-down shirt with a grimace, I could see her neck, chest, shoulders and upper arms were bright pink with sunburn. Her face and forearms had color but were not burnt. 

“Oh babe,” I winced when I saw it. Lightly touching her shoulder, I could feel it was hot. “Hang on a sec, I’ve got just the thing,” I told her and walked into the kitchen. Taking the sizeable aloe vera plant from the windowsill, I snapped off a length and stuck it in the fridge’s freeze compartment. I poured her a glass of cold water and carried it to her. 

“I’ll be fine,” Jill muttered sorely. She wasn’t much for someone seeming to fuss over her. 

“Oh, come on, my big butch bear, someone’s got to look after you,” I cajoled her, pushing her into a chair. “The vest and bra come off too.” I helped her carefully lift them over her head. I put the glass in her hand and made the drinking motion to her. “Doctor’s orders.” Her breasts looked so pale and vulnerable, surrounded by the angry red skin of her upper chest and shoulders. 

“You’re a forensic pathologist,” she remarked under her breath. 

“Yes, a medical doctor with advanced training. Game, set, match. Now drink up.” I fetched the aloe stalk from the freezer, dashed upstairs to get a lidocaine ointment I kept in the bathroom, as well as a tea towel and went back to her. “Good girl,” I graded her as she swallowed the last of the water. 

Squeezing the aloe goo onto my hand, I blended it with a dab of lidocaine and gently applied the mixture to the painful, red areas. At first, Jill grunted but after a few moments of feeling the cool gel coat her hot skin, she sighed and gave a contented “mmm.” 

When I was done, she looked up and gave me that melty puppy smile. “Ok, you were right. Thank you so much, Laura, that does feel a lot less tender now.” She stood up to carefully wrap her arms around me and kissed me fully on the mouth. 

At first, I played hard to get, not opening my lips to her softly coaxing tongue. With a growl of frustration, she tried a different tactic and began kissing my ear lobe and nibbling it with her front teeth. 

No entry granted. I was going to make her work for it. 

She placed a necklace of kisses around my jaw, and I conceded a little with a closed-mouth moan. Then she nosed the area between my breasts like a tall blonde wolf and made little snuffling, whiny sounds as she began to use the tip of her tongue to trace around the tops of my breast and burrow into the cleavage. 

“Right,” I breathed, opening my mouth with a groan and letting her tongue sweep in. “You won that set. Now don’t stop…” 

Several minutes later, Jill had relieved me of my shirt and bra and needed to relieve the ache between my then-unsteady legs. I pulled her into the bedroom. Mindful of her sunburn, I let her make love to me, keeping my hands either on my own breasts or clasping her head when she went down on me. She positioned me so my legs were off the side of the bed and she knelt on the floor, cupping my arse with her strong hands. By the time I came with her name on my lips, the lower half of her face glistened as her shoulders had from the aloe mixture, albeit from an entirely different source. 

Too sleepy from the day’s and evening’s adventures, she lay on her back and welcomed me into her arms. 

“I think we both won that round, don’t you, Dr Hobson,” she whispered. Before I could quip a reply, she was in the Land of Nod.


	64. Incense and Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This chapter has mature F/F action.

Our phones buzzed at the same time the next morning at 6:37 am. 

A text informed us that a body had been found in a pew of a suburban Anglican church, St. Mary’s in Brackley, and gave us the street address for the location. I saw the apprehension in Laura’s eyes and wished I could erase it for her. Going to a murder scene came with the territory of being a forensic pathologist. Like the other crime scene investigators and detectives, the investigating pathologist could face dangers from the body itself (from poisons or sharp objects, for example) or from the scene itself. One was never complacent, hypervigilant, hyperaware. 

However, the initials’ murders brought a new level of anxiety for Laura at every scene. Would this body include one of those trinkets, a kind of reverse memento? Was the killer himself or herself on the scene or nearby watching her every move, from her Volvo rolling onto the scene to the snapping off of nitrile gloves? Was he/she physically and/or emotionally becoming aroused by this? Was it someone she had passed on the street and never noticed? Was he/she stalking other aspects of her life? 

Throwing on clean clothes, and brushing our teeth in silence in the bathroom, we hurried to our individual cars, exchanging a chaste kiss and a “be careful, love” before driving to the scene. It was a rainy summer Sunday morning. 

St. Mary’s dated from the mid-1700s, a weathered stone church in what would have then been the far outskirts of Oxfordshire county. In the era of its founding, the market town might have been an hour’s carriage ride from Oxford city center. Now, major motorways got us there in less than 30 minutes on a lightly trafficked early Sunday morning. In the rain-streaked church parking lot, I helped Laura pull her gear from the boot of her wagon. Kit Marsh was just arriving on the scene too and followed us in the main church door. 

The local officer in charge, a tall, slim 30-something named Sergeant Will Bamber, took us in, past the vicar—in collar but sans service robes—and a tweedy older couple, whom Bamber said were the warden and his wife and the ones who discovered the victim when they arrived to rouse and prep the sleepy old building for its weekly duties. 

We donned our tyvek suits (Laura’s white, ours blue) in the narthex or foyer before solemnly walking up the nave to the wooden pew, third row from the pulpit or left side of the space. About a person’s width from the entrance to the row, an older woman lay slumped to the opposite side. Jean Turnbull, Bamber informed us, a regular St. Mary’s congregant, identified immediately by the Rev. Paul Costigan and the Wetherhills when they had arrived about 6 a.m. Retired teacher, widowed more than a decade ago, no children. On the fete committee for eons. Short grey hair in a style similar to Dame Judi Dench. An age-thin wedding band on her left ring finger. 

As Bamber filled us in on the particulars, Laura began her examination with a couple of SOCOs assisting her by photographing the body in situ and then moving it to the center aisle on a Tyvek sheet for more detailed examination. Jean Turnbull looked like a formerly hearty woman in her mid-70s who had lost significant weight, judging by the manner in which her linen shirt and neat cotton skirt collapsed around her. For a then-slender woman, her ankles seemed surprisingly swollen, I thought, though realized it could have been due to post-mortem blood pooling. Her legs rigidly bent at the knee from rigor mortis, her eyes open but clouded, her mouth drawn back in a grimace, the late Mrs Turnbull didn’t feel Laura’s thermometer pierce her right abdomen to register liver temperature, though Kit and I cringed at the action. 

Laura withdraw the long slim instrument after the required time. “The church, though not air-conditioned, is made of thick stone that naturally keeps summer temperatures comfortable,” she noted, making a mental calculation. “Given her liver temp, ambient temp and the body being in peak rigor, I’d estimate she died late last night. Say after 8 p.m. but before midnight. Some bruising around her neck that could be consistent with strangulation.” Laura started to rise but Kit spoke up and stopped her in her tracks. 

“Dr Hobson, what is that pinned to her scarf?” Kit asked cautiously. She pointed with a gloved finger to a delicate gold pin. Laura reached for it, turned it over and gasped. The color drained from her face and a wobbly “No…” came from her mouth. 

It was a gold and seed pearl circle pin…with the letter “L” in the center. It was attached to a silky summer-weight floral scarf that had been tied to a handbag next to the body. I helped Laura to a pew on the opposite side of the aisle. She sat heavily, head in her hands, visibly shaking. Damn. 

With a whispered, “I’m so sorry, love,” and a squeeze of her shoulder, I motioned to Kit and Will Bamber and left the church nave as quickly as possible. In the narthex, we ducked into a corner. I explained the situation. We apparently had another Initial murder on our hands—his hands, more precisely. 

“Laura, Dr. Hobson, and I are partners, dating, seeing each other,” I expanded when I could see at first he wasn’t getting it. His eyes widened and he nodded in comprehension. “I cannot be part of this investigation. The Detective Inspector handling the case—whom you need to call—is DI Jim Baldrich. Here is his number”—I handed him my phone, the screen showing Jim’s police mobile number. “I cannot participate in any way with this investigation or we risk a potential conflict-of-interest claim when this murderer is brought to justice. I am informing you now, and you can, if need be, testify that my only involvement to this point was to listen to your background information and see Dr Hobson begin to perform her preliminary scene investigation. Do you agree with that assessment?” 

He nodded again. “Yes, of course.” We all glanced inside the nave and could see Laura was on her mobile, no doubt calling a colleague to come to the scene to replace her. “I will keep the scene secure while Dr Hobson arranges for someone to fill in for her. We had no idea…” 

No reason he should, I assured him. Pulling off our blue tyvek suits and booties in the parking lot, Kit and I looked at each other. “Good catch, DC Marsh,” I told her. “You stopped us just in time.” I pulled out my mobile and called Jean Innocent. Lord, she wasn’t going to be thrilled at being called that early on a Sunday morning. The chief super actually took it better than expected, glad we’d handled it as we had. Told us to go home and enjoy the day off. I passed along those instructions to Kit, who gave me a grim little smile and explained that she would indeed be able to make a brunch date she’d been dreading with boyfriend’s mum. Giving her a sympathetic cringe and a shrug, I gave her quick faux-blessing behind my hand (in case the Rev. Costigan was within sight) and waved good bye. 

I waited for Laura’s replacement, a respected, experienced member of her team named Porter Blake who had taken over the case from her, to arrive and for Laura and Bamber to brief him. I followed her to her wagon, helped her out of the suit, by then undone to her waist with the sleeves casually knotted like a belt. Some of the color acquired from yesterday’s canal jaunt had returned to her face, though I could tell she still felt unnerved by the experience. 

“Want to go somewhere and get coffee? I’m guessing a full fry-up would not suit right now, but maybe some toast and sugary tea would serve you after the shock?” I asked gently, helping her pull down the rear hatch. She nodded, looking as though she could burst into tears any second. I pulled her into an embrace that was more collegial than sexual. She snuffled a bit and I reached into my lightweight seersucker jacket, a faded thrift-shop relic of unknown vintage, and handed her a handkerchief. I had taken to carrying them once I joined the detective ranks, finding them helpful to offer to victims’ families when the need arose. 

“Chivalry is not dead,” Laura murmured as she took it from me and graced me with a watery smile. She wiped her eyes with the cloth and stuffed it in her pocket. “I could do with a tea. Not sure my stomach would handle anything else right now. Do you know a place?” 

I remembered passing a Costa on the way there and told her so, suggesting she follow me there. Fifteen minutes later—having waved a salute to Jim Baldrich as we passed him arriving as we drove off—we sat in a weekend-busy Costa, Laura sipping a hot tea, me nibbling a ham and cheese croissant. We’d ducked into a table near the back. I let Laura dictate the conversation, hanging back to be supportive with my left thumb stroking her right hand. She seemed to bring out the protective side of me as well as the side, rarely seen before, that relished simple, casual moments of touching like this. 

“I feel so stupid. I should have checked the body for jewelry. Especially now,” Laura sighed. “And I think I did give it a once-over. I didn’t see the bag at first because Mrs Turnbull had fallen over onto it.” 

“Don’t beat yourself up, darling. You and I both have more experience and sometimes a fresh set of eyes is what’s needed. I’m glad Kit spotted it when she did,” I offered. “We handed it off precisely as we should have. Jean Innocent said so.” Laura’s head rose as she took in my last remark. She gripped my hand and smiled a little, the lines at the corners of her eyes creasing with rueful acknowledgement. 

“I wonder what goes through the murderer’s mind,” she pondered aloud. “Is he killing for the sake of it? Is it a perverted sort of mercy killing—the deaths are hardly merciful but these victims thus far (and I would hypothesis Mrs Turnbull today judging from the weight loss and ankle edema I would guess liver cancer) are terminally ill. Is it a messianic control thing—choosing the time and method of someone’s death? Is he getting back at me or forensic pathologists for some perceived slight?” 

Laura took a deep breath. “I also am horrified to think these murders are being done ‘for me’—whether to get revenge on me or to get my attention. Those poor people, their families...” she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders rising and falling with each silent sob. I went round to the other side of the table to sit next to her and hold her close. I hated seeing Laura in such pain. The circumstances were beyond her control or mine to fix. I cherished her for her compassion; at the moment, all I could do was support her and stay well clear of DI Baldrich’s investigation. I murmured sweet nothings in her ear and held her until I felt her grip loosen. She gave me a slight nod of “I’m ok now,” and I went back to my seat. She walked to the loo. 

I swallowed some of my iced Americano, savoring the rich bittersweetness of the espresso roast. After a few minutes, she returned, looking fresher, more sorted. “I will need to write up my report of this morning when we get home,” she said with a sigh. 

“Have you sat down with Jim Baldrich to go over past cases that had been in dispute?” Laura shook her head. She noted that DI Baldrich, having only received the joint investigation two days before, was due to interview her the next day. She would give the matter some thought today and also text Leo Merton to see whether any cases stood out to her assistant, who had worked with her for more than 8 years. 

She took another sip of her tea, sucked in her bottom lip in an expression I’d come to recognize as contemplative. 

“What do you need?” I asked her, reaching my hand out to her across the table. “What can I do to help you?” 

She took my hand, running her thumb over my fingers. “Buy me one of those pain au chocolat’s at the counter,” she said almost shyly, as if embarrassed to realize her hunger. “And take me home with you.” I stood and leaned over the table. Done, I said, and kissed her lips before leaving to purchase the pastry. As I walked over, I saw a couple of younger women at a nearby table holding hands. They smiled at me and nodded. I winked at them and smiled back. When I returned to our table and gave Laura the pastry bag, she indicated she had noticed the exchange. 

“Going to drop me for not one but two younger models, Raymond?” she teased, a bit of her usual spark returning. 

“It would take far more than two to equal the vintage model I’m deeply in love with,” I quipped back. “Besides, they don’t have the right equipment.” She quirked an eyebrow.   
“No crow’s feet, no paratheses here and here,” I responded, air-drawing line slight lines bracketing her mouth. “You have no idea how beautiful you are, just as you are, because of who you are.” 

Feeling vulnerable, Laura needed a bit more convincing. “Even though my life’s a hot mess right now?” 

I leaned forward and cupped her cheek, tilting her eyes to look into mine. “We will get through this together. I’m not going anywhere, my love. Except home with you right now.” 

Laura smiled, the first true smile of the day, like sunshine skimming across a pond and making it shimmer. She needed to go back to her place first to check on Desmond and pick up her laptop and a few things. Would I mind following her there and then on to mine? Not at all. She led the way, got what she required from her home and we reached mine in time for lunch. 

I set her up at my desk and popped out to pick up the makings of an indoor/garden picnic: cheeses, pickles, nuts, crackers, some wine for Laura. I got back about 40 minutes later to find she’d changed into an old t-shirt of mine, cut-off sweat pants that allowed for a delicious display of muscular thighs and calves. Her feet were half in, half out of a beloved pair of open-back Birkenstocks, her toes fiddling with the boiled-wool tops as she focused on writing a report. She’d showered, her hair darkened by dampness, and smelled of my oak moss soap. Another other day, I’d have taken her in my arms and pulled her into the bedroom for some midday love-making, but I knew she needed to tackle the reports while the details were most fresh. 

“Ooh, reinforcements, yum!” Laura said. 

“Me or the food?” I asked with a smirk. She slipped her feet out of the shoes and turned to face me. “Well, you yourself are quite the treat,” she said, her voice toe-curlingly sexy, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me passionately. I groaned at the prolonged contact, every flick and swirl of our tongues made my groin warmer. Slowly, she pulled back. 

“But, I am a tad peckish now,” she admitted and left me stood there by the desk. She snatched up the gourmet shop packages and strode to the kitchen to discover her bounty like a pirate with a treasure chest. 

“Hmmph,” I mumbled, feigning disappointment. “As my Aunt Mickey would say, ‘You’ve ben telt!’” I added, sounding a bit like Janey Godley. 

Munching on a caramelized walnut, Laura stopped chewing. “I didn’t know your Aunt Mickey is Scottish!” 

“Not only Scots but ‘frae Glesga’,” I gently corrected as the woman herself would. “Mary Margaret Carmichael makes sure you know it. She winds up Aunt Sally about “slumming it” by being with a “ruddy Englishwoman”. Then Sally teases her back, saying it is only because Mickey has run through all the girls north of the border, ‘you slag’. They’re quite the comedy act, those two,” I noted with a laugh. 

“I can’t wait to meet them and your father,” Laura said, chuckling at the image in her mind of two elderly women play-spatting. I hugged her from behind, folding my arms around her, burying my nose in the short hair at the nape of her neck. Nuzzled its soft sweetness, kissed it. 

“Oh, they will adore you, though I’m sure they do already,” I whispered to her. I knew Lulu, Hal and, without a doubt, their beloved great niece Becca had told them all about Laura, as had I during phone conversations and emails. Mickey was the techie of the pair, up on the latest gadgets, had their cottage wired for security and convenience. 

“I hope they think I’m good for you, because I know you are for me,” she offered. Never arrogant but usually buoyantly self-confident, Laura needed a bit of reassurance at the moment, which I fervently gave her. I told her Sally’s words to me after the stabbing. “A woman like your Dr Hobson doesn’t come along every day. You deserve this kind, this depth of love. Be there for her too.” Laura blushed, happy by my aunt’s observation and understanding. 

I began opening paper-wrapped cheeses and a twisted cone of cocoa-covered almonds that Brahim, the co-owner of Fourchette, always snuck in the bag. I sliced up a couple of apples, opened a jar of balsamic black cherry jam and decided I’d have a gin and tonic so went about fixing one, cutting a lime into slices. I offered Laura a G&T but she decided to stick with wine. 

After filling a plate with morsels of nuts, a smear of jam, crackers and chunks of cheese, Laura returned to the desk and her report writing. I changed into a loose v-neck t-shirt, kicked off my shoes and sauntered through the French doors onto the back patio. The sun had turned up for duty, its heat burning off the remainder of the morning’s early rain. The turquoise-cushioned teak chaise was calling my name as was Elizabeth Gilbert’s “The Signature of All Things,” a fictional account of an early American female botanist who because an expert on moss. Gerard sent me an autographed copy; he had met the author at a mutual friend’s home in the riverside hamlet called Frenchtown, New Jersey, along the Delaware River. Gilbert and her husband lived in the town and graciously offered Gerard a copy from a box she kept in the boot of her car. With characters adventuring across the globe in search and research of orchids, quinine and varieties of moss, it seemed the perfect companion for a sunny afternoon. 

***

Finally, all the necessary reports were emailed over to Porter, I’d caught up on some correspondence and checked with Leo regarding old cases. The one that came to mind for both of us involved an adult brother and sister who had strenuously argued that their elderly mother had been abused in a care center. The Terrells, Michael and Lysbeth, felt the center staff had ignored symptoms of cancer that their mother, Angela, had until it was too late for treatment. 

Michael, a bachelor who lived in their mother’s home, had been most adamant, even when the post-mortem I performed found that while Angela had complained of various aches and pains for years (which the clinical staff at the high-end care center dutifully followed up on), the type of colon cancer that ultimately took her life was a particularly aggressive sort. According to highly experienced oncologists I consulted, the cancer had come along in only the last eight weeks of Mrs Terrell’s life and spread like wildfire through her surrounding organs. She had undergone an abdominal and pelvic CT scan only a month prior to her death due to concerns about an intestinal blockage, but it had shown no sign of tumors or neoplastic lesions. Leo reminded me that while Lysbeth seemed to accept the post-mortem findings, Michael wasn’t satisfied. He had sued the care center but lost. My stomach felt as though a nest of pit vipers had taken up residence in it when I recalled Michael Terrell and his bitter anger. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of him before but I had then and the creepy, queasiness got washed away by a ripple of intuition. 

I called DI Baldrich because I felt this information couldn’t wait til our interview the following day. We talked for about 25 minutes and he said he and his DC would immediately follow up on the case and Michael Terrell’s whereabouts. Leo kindly went to the office to copy the files for him and deliver them to Jim’s home. I went online and ordered a gift card to Fourchette for him and Frank as a token of my gratitude. 

Pouring myself a second glass of wine, I padded across the room toward the doors to the patio. A smile bloomed on my face at the sight. Jill had fallen asleep, black-rimmed reading glasses halfway down her long nose, mouth slightly open and emitting gentle snores, lanky legs crossed at the ankles. Her slender fingers rested on the book spine as the thick novel lay open pages down on her lap. As I watched, the toes of her left foot curled and stretched as she dreamed, sort of like a dog when it runs in a dream. My heart swelled with love for her. She gave me everything I needed to handle the traumatic scene of the morning, tasty food for sustenance and the space (emotionally and physically) I had required for my work. Asked me what I needed, anticipated some on her own. I could tell she was concerned about my wellbeing and felt powerless to help with the case, but she made sure she truly was present for me. I thought about men I had dated. Considerate, intelligent men, but I couldn’t see any of them being there for me exactly as I needed that day, exactly as Jill had been. 

I padded over to her and pulled the other chaise over to hers, sitting on it sideways, my knees against the side of her lounger. I lightly brushed my fingers along her left arm, picking up her hand and cradling it in my own, placing devotional kisses on its sun-warmed palm.

Jill stirred with an adorable snuffle, slowly openly her left eye to assess the situation. 

“Mmm, everything ok?” she murmured, her voice thick with sweet drowsiness. She clasped my hand in hers. I filled her in on my memories of the Terrell case and how I’d reached out to Jim Baldrich. She pushed a few wayward blonde locks out of her eyes and sat up. Made sense, she thought aloud as she worked through what I had told her. 

Jill started to take a sip of a very watered-down gin and tonic, but I stopped her. “Here, let me,” I said, kissing her soft hair. I came back with a crisp new drink and a plate with some cheese and such to nosh on. We both nibbled on crackers, savored the sharp cheddar and honey-crusted walnuts, simply enjoyed each other’s company. 

Watching her fingers slot a crumble of bleu cheese past her lips (her tongue slipped forward to guide it in), I then noticed, as I couldn’t help myself, the way the light cotton of her faded mint green t-shirt lay on top of her breasts. As I gazed at her chest, I could tell she noticed the attention. Her nipples hardened before my eyes like a switch was flipped. Her chest rose and fell with more force. She licked her lips. Jill Raymond was as aroused as I was. My look alone did that? Why not, I thought, she could unravel me with a quick glance too. 

I looked around the patio; from where it was situated behind Jill’s cottage, the patio was amazingly secluded and private. No one in other buildings could spy on us. I got up from my lounger and gently but firmly pushed Jill back into a semi-reclining position. She watched me with anticipation, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. Then I straddled her, reveling in how her pupils darkened and her lips opened. Her tongue welcomed mine without hesitation. She whimpered through our kiss as my thumb painted circles round her left nipple. She groaned deeply when my lips tag-teamed her other pert nipple—one being thumbed, the other sucked through the thin fabric of her shirt. 

“Oh Laura,” she moaned. Her hands pushed up under my shirt to grip my waist. She started to lean forward to reciprocate but I eased her back down with a deep kiss. “No, love, please. Please let me make love to you. You’ve done so much for me today,” I emphasized my remarks with butterfly kisses to her cheeks, eye lids and chin, smelled the sun on her. She grunted as my lower thigh bumped into the apex of her legs. “That’s it, darling, ride me,” I urged her on. 

I could see the pressure was building in her groin, feel how she was getting closer with each thrust of her hips. “We.should.go.inside…the.cottage, I mean,” she gasped out, trying to be as quiet as possible. 

“Right, ok then,” I pushed into her crotch a final time, moving my thigh in a tight circle, could feel how her wetness had soaked through knickers and jeans. Dear God, so wet…

“No, stay, I---Oh God,” and with a great sigh, Jill came. Her eyes opened wide, made contact with mine, and then shuttered again as she rode each new wave of her climax. In the interest of keeping things quiet, I micro-nibbled her nipple to stretch out the orgasm as long as possible without touching her sensitive clit. That, I knew, would have generated a near-scream from the usually stoic Ms Raymond. 

“What was that about going inside?” I asked rather smugly. “Or should I say ‘Coming inside?’ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the lovely, encouraging responses to this story. They each mean so much. 
> 
> Liz Gilbert's "A Signature of All Things" feels like something Jill would enjoy and is a delightful book I plan to re-read. Please don't take Jill's falling asleep as a commentary on Gilbert's prose. 
> 
> I decided to make Aunt Mickey a Glaswegian in response to one fan's urging that I put my family background to good use. And if you haven't seen comedian Janey Godley's "channeling" of First Minister Nicola Sturgeon's "lockdown briefings", you're in for a treat. Ye've all been telt! ;-)


	65. Ginger and Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little angst never hurt anyone. For long. ;-)

I rose early the next morning, a Monday, more refreshed than I expected. Kissing Jill on the head and scratching a quick note to her with the pad and pencil she kept bedside, I drove home where I showered, dressed, took care of Desmond (who’d protested our absence in his own language) and dashed off to pick up the Fourchette gift card for Leo before arriving at my office so I could fully re-acquaint myself with the details of the Angela Terrell case. I was due to meet DI Baldrich at the squad room at 9 am. 

I arrived by 8:45 am, before Jill, who usually showed up precisely at 9, and placed a flowering cactus on her desk. Its turquoise-painted clay pot bore a pink bow and a tag on which I’d written: “Jill, Please look after this cactus. It only needs water once a week. Pick Monday so you won’t forget. Thank you for yesterday. Love, Laura” I would usually use our initials, but the murders made me feel uneasy and even superstitious about putting my initials on anything right then. 

“Ah, good morning Dr Hobson,” a friendly voice boomed behind me. There stood Jim Baldrich, briefcase and coffees in hand. He was one of those men who, even when dressed smartly in blazer jacket, regimental tie on top of spotless, ironed shirt and charcoal gray trousers, still had a slightly rumbled look about him. It might have been his bear-like build, the overgrown eye brows or somewhat unruly brown hair. I knew him to be a highly qualified, well-regarded detective and knew any who underestimated him did so often at their own risk. He handed me a cup. 

“Your caramel latte sounded good so I figured I’d try one meself,” he told me. “Sometimes Mondays need an extra touch of sweetness to get them started, eh?” he raised his cup to me, and I saluted back with mine. I wondered who told him of my preferred order and then realized Leo had dropped off the Terrell files for him the day before. Bless Mr Merton. I thanked DI Baldrich for his thoughtfulness. 

He had me follow him into a conference room, told me his DS was out tending to a sick child “so you’re stuck with me solo today.” Jim Baldrich was old-school in his plainspokenness, new-school in his appreciation of technology. After reading through the Angela Terrell file that Leo gave him, Jim told me he returned to the station yesterday to begin accessing databases and other techno tools available to detectives. Often left to the lower-ranking officer of the team, Baldrich enjoyed the process of digging for details and backgrounds that often hid tidbits about a suspect’s past.

For example, he said, Michael Terrell had worked in his late father’s antiques shop. After Lawrence Terrell died, Michael continued in the field on a more limited basis, specializing in estate jewelry. He maintained a stall in one of the Saturday village-square markets that sprang up around Oxford. 

“The market isn’t open on Sunday, but I spoke by phone with a couple of other vendors,” Jim said after a sip and the groan of satisfaction known to most coffee lovers. “They try to steer clear of him. His business is legit, but they don’t care for his miserly ways and high-and-mighty opinion of himself,” he read from a printed copy of his computerized notes. 

Terrell’s day job for the past year (he seemed to bounce around) was—“Wait for it, Dr H”—as a medical assistant in a clinical oncologists’ practice. “Where he has access to patient records and possibly has interacted with our victims. I’m checking on this immediately after our meeting,” the inspector said. “I did check with Mrs Siegel, who confirmed that her husband had gone to that practice,” he added. He had called Ms Chang’s sister, but she hadn’t even known her sister was ill. Sgt Bamber of the Brackley division was at Mrs Turnbull’s home that morning trying to find out more about the older woman. 

I took a sip and then put down my cup. “How may I help, Inspector?” He had me run through the Terrell case again to see if anything else stood out or the file had jogged any memories. I remembered that at one point, I had overheard Lysbeth on a mobile call to what sounded like her husband or partner, saying her brother had guarded their mother like a prized possession, “still the controlling little beast he was from our childhood. I don’t care so much about Mum’s belongings, but I’ll just bet he’s squirreled away those second-edition Dickens’ novels and Father’s rare British coin collection.” Or words to that effect, as I relayed to Jim Baldrich. 

“How much direct contact did he have with you?” Jim asked, pushing his reading specs back up his nose. Face-to-face, only during the formal identification of his mother’s body, and in court, I said. He never approached you outside of the mortuary? he asked. Not that I could recall. 

“How would he know your middle initial, Dr H?” Jim’s specs had walked halfway down his nose. 

“Please, call me Laura. I do use it on all official documents as part of my signature, including post-mortem reports, so he could have seen it on his mother’s report. Not much mystery there, I’m afraid. But…” I thought for a moment. Jim looked up. 

“Often when I testify in court, I do wear a monogrammed pin that my parents gave me upon med school graduation. It was sort of a good luck charm for court days, though I doubt I’ll ever look at it the same way again.” I decided right then and there never to wear that pin in public again. 

“Jim, do you think he’s been stalking me—my home, who I might be with?” He put down his papers, took the specs off entirely, having lost the battle to keep them in place, and thought for a moment. 

“Nothing about these cases would suggest that. The bodies, while found in public or quasi-public settings that anyone could have accessed, were not necessarily near your home. I take it they had no specific meaning to you?” I shook my head. 

“No, I didn’t think so. I suspect it’s more that there’s no CCTV coverage in the spots he’s chosen; St. Mary’s is kept open and unlocked. He may have guessed you’d get an early-morning call over other pathologists or maybe he got lucky with that. He seems to be saying ‘My mother should have had more time to live and didn’t, you didn’t find a reason to punish what I perceive as negligence in her death, so I’m going to deprive others of the same chance as well as their families and figuratively and literally pin it on you, Dr. Hobson,’ ” Jim hypothesized. 

“So it is personal,” I half-asked, half-concluded. 

He nodded. “Is there a chance you could either take some time off or not handle any field work for the next week or so? I think we just need to confirm some facts, see about DNA and other physical evidence, interview him and then very likely charge him fairly quickly. But this way you wouldn’t have the trauma of dealing directly with this case or wondering every time you got a body call.” 

“And it would prevent me from getting another of his victims—though I hope there are no others—and then having to call for a replacement,” I thought aloud. “Right, I can arrange that. I need to finish up some outstanding paperwork and make some phone calls to families and the cororner regarding pending toxicology reports, but I can do that from the office or from phone. My assistant can always forward calls and emails to me.” 

“Great,” Jim said, giving me a kindly smile. He thanked me for coming in for the interview and assured me he would keep me informed as the case progressed. I asked if I could stay in the conference room for a few moments to call Leo and my contact at the Home Office Forensic Pathology Unit, which oversees all Home Office-registered forensic pathologists and our practices. He shook my hand and closed the door behind him. 

When I walked back into the main squad room 10 minutes later, I spotted Jill at her desk. She was on the phone, the card from the cactus open in front of her, one of her elegant index fingers tracing my handwriting. I heard her ring off and walked to her desk. 

“Hi there, Inspector Raymond,” I bent and whispered in her right ear. She quickly turned and bestowed a beaming, ear-to-ear grin on me. 

“Hello you! Thank you for the beauuutiful cactus!” she stretched out “beautiful” into five syllables. She stood and, not caring who was present, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me lightly on the lips. Her actions generated a whoop from a younger male officer, who promptly got play-cuffed on the back of his head by an older one, DI Charlie Higgins, who added “Manners, lad!” 

I blushed. This was the first time in the company of Jill’s colleagues, other than Jean Innocent and DC Kit Marsh, that we had appeared together let alone display even a hint of PDA. I hadn’t expected to be “outed” in a sense by Jill in front of a squad of police officers. They were a welcoming bunch who clearly admired and respected Jill. But this was unchartered waters for me, and I already felt adrift at sea that morning. 

“What’s all this?” demanded CS Innocent as she emerged from her office, her tone one of mock-sternness. “Haven’t you ever seen a copper kiss her partner before?” She hugged me and then invited both of us into her office. Jim Baldrich had just brought her up to speed on the initials cases. She said she was glad to hear I would be taking some time off, which was the first Jill heard of it. She looked surprised. 

“Jim just suggested it,” I told her quickly. “I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.” 

Jill nodded in agreement with the decision. “That’s good. Smart. Means you can cook for me every night,” she said as she rubbed my hand, smiled and gave me a wink to show she was joking about the last comment. But I inwardly bristled and withdrew my hand. Her smile flatlined into puzzlement. Jean Innocent didn’t seem to notice. 

“Jill, you know you have several weeks’ time accrued,” Jean began. Jean and I could tell that Jill, being Jill, was about to jump in and note she had just been out on sick leave after her stabbing. 

“And no, getting stabbed in the line of duty and being on sick leave afterward does not count as vacation time,” Jean pushed ahead, her right hand raised palm forward to brook no argument from her direct report. “I am approving an immediate week’s holiday for you, Inspector. You two go and relax. Forget about all that’s going on. Now scram, some of us have work to do and murderers to catch!” 

We strolled back to Jill’s desk. She was still a bit taken aback by Jean’s edict. It didn’t jive with her strong work ethic. She wouldn’t have asked for the time off. Her expression was flat except for the three vertical “thinking” lines between her eyebrows. 

I think I was surprised too. It felt as if Jim Baldrich and Jean Innocent, albeit with the best of intentions, were dictating the terms of my life at a moment when it already felt out of control. Suddenly, a rare rage swelled up inside me. 

Jill tucked the card I’d given her into her inside jacket pocket and picked up her briefcase. We waved our goodbyes and left the squad room. 

As we negotiated the stairs to the ground floor, Jill inquired, “Are you going to the mortuary now?” 

“You controlling my movements too? Yes, I need to pick up a few things and meet with Leo,” my tone clipped. “Call me later and we’ll see what’s what,” I said vaguely. We exited the stairwell and headed to the car park. 

She furrowed her brow. “Do you need any time to yourself?” Her tone cautious as if she sensed she was walking on eggshells. “I-I wouldn’t want to intrude…” 

Sometimes she could be too damned polite. Too damned thoughtful. Except, of course, when she kissed me in front of a full squad room. Hadn’t given my feelings a thought then. I stopped short and she ran right into me with an “oof”. 

“Damn it, Jill, first you act as if my feelings don’t matter and then you’re Inspector Sensitive? Either you’re too bloody considerate or not nearly enough!” 

The words had flown out of my mouth as if shot from a cannon. They hit their target. Jill blinked several times, her lips slightly parted in confusion. She looked stunned and her right hand went to her midsection as if to protect it from a punch to the gut. I shook my head angrily and walked briskly to my wagon. When I unlocked the driver’s door and opened it, I realized she hadn’t followed me. She still stood on the same spot by the entrance, staring at me. 

“Well?” I barked. A couple of detectives who had stepped outside for a smoke stopped talking and stared at us. 

Jill looked over at them, gave a them a little “Don’t mind us” shrug and walked to me. “Laura, I can see you’re upset. Can we talk?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Oh now you notice I’m ‘upset’. You’re the brilliant detective. You figure it out. Call me when you do,” I snapped. 

Jill winced at the sharp edge in my tone and recoiled as if slapped across the face. When she replied, her voice was cold as steel, tone pinched. “No, Laura, I won’t be calling you tonight.”

“Right, I can do with some alone time,” I said huffily and got in my car and slammed the door shut before she could say anything else. I could use some time to myself.   
She quickly stalked off in the other direction to where her car was parked. Hmmph, I thought, still spitting nails as I drove off. 

***

Bloody hell. The words and the venomous tone Laura deployed struck me like physical blows I never saw coming. What the hell had just happened? One moment we were hugging, the next, she was hurling insults at me. Sticks and stones, my arse. When thrown by the usually even-tempered Dr Laura Hobson, they hurt like hell.   
I refused to let those tears fall, certainly not in front of Laura, though I drove out of the car park through a watery film in front of my pupils. I bit my lower lip, not so stiff at the moment, and stared forward. 

I’ve never enjoyed confrontation—Lulu used to kid me about that; it was a sport for her. Laura usually wasn’t into verbal jousting either but, for whatever reason, she had felt a need to go on the attack. After my experience with Helen, I had learned I didn’t have to tolerate, let alone accept, a partner’s poor behavior and/or physical or emotional abuse. I’d be damned, as much as I loved Laura Hobson, if I would be her verbal punching bag. 

As I drove home, I replayed the morning in my mind. Why had she turned on me that way? What had I said or done to warrant her ire and venom? And now I had a week off from work that I neither wanted nor sought and was practically ordered to spend with her? Maybe I would call Jean Innocent and tell her I’d be back at work the next day. 

Then I suddenly realized that the chief super probably had another motive for giving me the time off and suggesting Laura did too: It would be best for the case if neither of us were anywhere near the investigation of three homicides, particularly if they were getting close to charging a suspect. I wondered whether Laura understood that but resisted any urge to call her. 

We had spent nearly every day or evening together for several weeks. Perhaps we did need some time apart. 

Entering my home, I toed off my loafers, hung up my coat and walked to the bathroom to splash water on my face. I changed out of my work clothes and into tracksuit bottoms and a favorite t-shirt. Silenced my mobile, connected it to the charger in the bedroom and felt a lump in my throat when I saw Laura’s extra pair of bright blue reading specs on “her” bedside table along with a collection of “first time” lesbian short stories she’d found tucked away in my bedside table and claimed. 

Wiping the corner of my eyes with the edge of a finger, I wandered back into the living room. I felt like a fish out of water. I never saw the hook coming. 

My stomach rumbled and, glancing at my watch, I realized it was past lunchtime and I hadn’t eaten much breakfast either. My appetite had deserted me, but I knew I should eat something. Toast with butter and honey wouldn’t go amiss, along with a big mug of tea. I brought the mug and plate to the living room and settled down on the Chesterfield. Took my iPod off the end table, booted it up, pulled on my headphones and lost myself in Luduvico Einaudi’s Divenire album. Between sips of tea and nibbles of multi-grain toast, I thumbed through a criminal justice journal and skimmed a couple of articles. Then I closed my weary, sore eyes and let my mind go blank and ride the ebb and flow of the minimalist piano music. 

However, Laura kept returning to my thoughts. Thinking about the book Laura had borrowed, I realized that she was still relatively new to being involved with a woman and to being in a relationship rather than casually dating. Had we gotten too close too soon? Was she struggling with this on top of the anxiety of the triple-murder case? 

I recognized too that sometimes when a woman is not raised by a loving, nurturing woman (or women, such as Aunts Sally and Mickey), she may not know what to do when a woman consistently shows her these traits. She may not feel she can trust them; perhaps, as was the case for Lulu, Laura’s mother could be loving one moment and cruel and distant the next. Laura didn’t talk much about her mum, but I suppose I’d drawn my on negative conclusions about Dr Hazel Hobson, given that her daughter wouldn’t even visit her after a major stroke. For someone as compassionate and caring a person as I knew Laura to be, the senior Dr Hobson must be a monster, I thought. 

None of this excused Laura’s treatment of me, I knew, but it helped me gain context for her lashing out. 

I got up, stretched and decided to read in bed for a while. When I passed my phone, I saw I had a missed call from, speak of the devil, Lulu. A case she’d been scheduled to take to court that week had gone “tits up—the bastard confessed and pled guilty at the last possible mo” and as Becca was off for summer hols, would I by chance have any time to spend with them? 

“Please Auntie J,” Becca’s voice piped up into the phone message. I couldn’t help but grin at her infectious tone. She was growing up so quickly—how could I resist a chance to be with her and my BF? 

I propped up my pillows, scooted under the covers, sipped from a glass of cold water I’d put on the bedside table and rang Lulu’s number. 

***  
On the drive home after stopping by the mortuary to gather some files and mail, I drove around aimlessly for a few hours. I stopped for an iced caramel latte, then drove again. 

Eventually, when I wasn’t a raging, screaming lunatic, I punched Jean Innocent’s personal mobile number into my phone. As soon as she identified herself, I launched my salvo. 

“Why did you interfere with my personal life? We’ve been friends a long time, Jean, but I never expected—” 

She cut me off. “Laura? Jesus, what’s going on?” Her tone nonplussed with a tinge of hurt. 

“You gave Jill time off and practically ordered her to spend it with me. Since when do you dictate my life and how I conduct it and with whom?” 

A long pause. I could hear my longtime friend taking a deep breath and exhaling. Then the sound of the phone being cupped to her hand, some whispering and then a door opening and closing. 

Jean came back on. “Laura, whether or not I authorize paid time off for my officers and detectives is none of your concern.” I rarely heard Jean Innocent angry but this was one of those times. 

“But frankly, my main reason for doing so was to ensure she was nowhere near the investigation of the Chang, Siegel and Turnbull murders. She is one of the best detectives we have, and I’d have loved to have her on the case, but there cannot even be the slightest hint that she was near it because of her link to you. You and I both know she would do her level best to stay out of it. But I don’t want the CPS to come back at Jim Baldrich and me and kick this case back. I know you don’t either. I may have, in the moment, tried to pretty it up and make the time off more appealing to her by suggesting you two could spend more time together.

“I’m sorry if you felt I was ‘dictating your life’ by that decision or how it was presented. Really, Laura, talk to me. What’s going on?” Her voice had softened by then, demonstrating why, amongst her squad and others in Oxfordshire Police, she was known as The Velvet Hammer. 

I pulled off the side of the road near a park. Kids played soccer off in a distant field but it was quiet right there in the car park. I took several deep breaths in an effort to calm my frayed nerves. 

“Laura…?” Jean was concerned. The floodgates opened and I sobbed. 

“Oh Jean, I’m so sorry. I had no right whatsoever to question your decision regarding Jill. I-I’ve made a hash of things today—not with the case—personally. I guess I didn’t realize how anxious this case had made me, how much things felt out of my control until Jim asked me—rightfully so—if I could take time off. Then Jill kissed me on the lips in front of the whole bloody squad…”

“Ah,” my friend said, “Now I see what’s going on. Laura, would you have been upset had Jill been a ‘Joe’ and done the same?” 

Her question caught me up short. “No, of course not! Ohhh…” The light bulb clicked on in my head. No wonder Jill didn’t understand why I was angry about that. She was out as a lesbian, always had been. I’d given her a gift and she was only showing her appreciation as anyone might have. It was a simple, affectionate kiss, not a tonsil-hockey tonguing or a tit-grabbing NSFW moment. Just a sweet “thank-you” buss on the lips. 

“And then I accused her in the car park of being too considerate,” I muttered, feeling the shame bloom on my cheeks. 

Jean’s laughter erupted through the car speakers. “Oh dear, you didn’t?” 

“’Fraid so,” I woefully acknowledged. 

“You are the worst baby dyke ever, Laura Hobson,” she told me, but I could hear the affection in her voice and was grateful for us being on a better footing again. “No, I take that back. Mandy was worse. She wouldn’t let me even go to her office for the longest time.” She chortled and I had to laugh as well. 

“Listen, the lads adore Jill just as she is and respect both of you individually. They always pray you’ll get the call to their crime scene, you know. I doubt very much that’s going to change any time in the future simply because Jill gave you a peck or they now officially know you’re a couple. And, in case you haven’t noticed, their chief super is a big ole lezzie too, from what I hear.” 

We laughed and after a few more minutes of reassurance from Jean and a promise from me that the four of us would get together for dinner soon, we rang off. I cleaned up my face, which looked frightful, and drove the rest of the way home. 

I poured myself a wine spitzer with some old 7-Up and white wine I found in the fridge, shed my clothing in a pile on the bathroom floor and turned on the tub for a nice, long soak. Sprinkled some lavender and ginger essential oils for relaxation and to relieve the general achiness that several days’ worth of anxiety had deposited in my muscles. Lit a few tea lights—all I could dare use with Desmond and his magnificent tail—and slid down into the bath with a groan of satisfaction. 

This was precisely what I needed. My head resting on the spa pillow, I luxuriated in the hot water and could feel the oils working their magic. Desmond mer-owed his way into the room and put his front paws up on the edge of the tub to check out the water. Nope, he told me through body language, I prefer my water unscented and cool. He jumped up on the tub ledge and washed his face sans H20, cupping his paw and using it as the softest washcloth in the world. And the only one with cute pink toe pads or “beans”. 

As I de-stressed, a thought popped into my mind: Jill and I haven’t taken a bath together. We might have sooner but after her stabbing she had to keep the incision dry and then we simply were too “busy” finding other ways to explore our bodies, ourselves, as the book title read. As angry as I had been at her, needlessly, earlier, I no longer felt that way. Now, thanks in part to time to sort myself out and in part to Jean’s calm guidance, I felt awful for how I’d treated her earlier. Sulkily removing my hand from her grasp, unleashing my vicious tongue (inherited from my mother—what a fucked-up legacy) on her, acting as though her compassion and kindness were horrible character flaws instead of the wonderful traits that led me to fall in love with her. 

Damn it, Laura. Call her! Apologize. Explain. But take full responsibility because it’s your mess and you own it. I reached for the phone, tapped her number under Favorites and waited. It went right to voice mail, indicating she was already on a call. I didn’t want to leave a detailed message so I hung up and texted her. 

“Hi. Would you please call me back? I’d like to talk about earlier. L xxx

I wondered with whom she could be talking. Looking down at my body with a critical eye, I saw some sagging to my breasts, a tummy that could be more toned, legs in need of a shave and questioned why the gorgeous, well-toned Jill Raymond had chosen me. She could have her choice of fit younger women rather than an older model half a decade her senior. Someone already fully comfortable with being an out lesbian or bisexual (or whatever I was) who…

No, I mentally shook my head. Stop that. First, she can talk with whomever she likes. Second, she wants you. Or at least did until about 10 that morning. Hey, stop that. This was simply a hiccup in the relationship, not it’s end, I told myself, though with a tad less confidence than I felt. 

The water had cooled. I sloshed out of the tub as gracefully as I could. Checked my phone as I dried off. No reply. Decided on an early night and got into bed after snacking on some roasted almonds and a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano to satisfy a craving for salty and crunchy. No reply. I couldn’t blame her; she did say she wouldn’t be calling that night.

Before I curled up on my side, I reached for one specific item on my bedside table that I’d made sure I brought home from the office that morning. Cradling Jill the Bear in my arms, her soft fur warm against my cheek, I kissed her. “And good night to my tall blonde bear, wherever you are. I love you, Jill.”


	66. Sandalwood and Sangria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A touch more angst but also Jill in a bikini. ;-)

Lulu has always has excellent parking karma (spaces magically open for her), the gift of knowing what to say and when, and friends who have picturesque villas, cottages and top-notch Airbnb accommodations for rent or use exactly when she asks. (She can’t tell a joke to save her soul, bless her, but we all have our challenges.) 

That week ran true to form for my dear sister-in-law. When she found out her case had gone arse over tea kettle, Lulu had been chatting with a recently retired QC about her lucky break when the woman said, “Maggie and I will be away on holiday in Portugal, why don’t you stay at our place in Sandbanks in Poole? Our usual house sitter got called away too, so you’d be doing us a tremendous favor.” 

“So of course I said yes!” Lulu told me the previous night on the phone. “Knowing you can join us will make it all the sweeter, Jill. The place has a heated pool so bring your bikini.” Like Lulu’s friend Jocelyn, Hal too was traveling, in Brussels on a conference. We talked further about directions, the street address, what time I would stop at their home so we could drive down together. 

I had already described what had happened with Laura earlier that day otherwise she would have been invited to join us. In fact, Becca had called into the phone “Bring Auntie L!” but I had to explain to Lulu why that wasn’t going to happen. “You two will work it out,” she said with her customary blend of confidence and intuition. 

While I was on the call, I could hear another call try to ring through—Laura—but ignored it. When I got off the call, Laura had left a text message asking me to call her so we could talk. I exhaled deeply through my mouth. No, not tonight, I thought. 

Perhaps I needed some space too. 

The next morning, I rose refreshed and eager to get on the road. With a favorite baseball cap on and the sun roof open, I hit the streets by 6 am, hoping to reach Lulu and Hal’s home in Highgate by 7:30 allowing for Tuesday commuter traffic on the M40. I’d packed a travel mug of hot coffee and an almond-caramel croissant for the drive down, having stopped at a local bakery for some favorite breads and pastries for our holiday. The day was picture-perfect, a cloudless, sunny day with temps comfortable for shorts and a vest topped by an untucked shirt. I realized about 10 minutes into my journey that I’d picked out Laura’s chambray blue shirt, which still bore a tantalizing hint of her beachy cologne. I took occasional sniffs at the collar, partly to keep her close, partly in anticipation of the shore locale that was our destination. 

When I pulled into Lulu and Hal’s circular drive in front of their updated Victorian manse (“Undertaker in the front, rock star in the back,” was how Hal aptly described it), Becca had been waiting for me and jumped off the wrought-iron Victorian settee to greet me. Lulu, being a master of organization, already had the Land Rover packed, and strolled through the front door with a coffee mug in hand. After a pitstop in their first-floor toilet and transferring my baggage to their vehicle, we left with Lulu’s usual alacrity and gravel-spitting speed. 

We chatted, nibbled some biscuits I’d brought and sang (Lulu robustly but slightly off-key) to a Beatles album on the car sound system. Becca had recently discovered the lads from Liverpool and become as big a fan as tweens in every generation since they first wanted to hold someone’s hand. 

My phone burred to notify me of a new text. Laura. Asking me to please contact her and let her know I was ok, even if I didn’t want to talk. I sighed. Lulu glanced at the phone and then at me when she heard me exhale. Looking back at her daughter, absorbed in a complex cable pattern she was knitting, she whispered “You’re going to have to answer her at some point.” 

“Yup,” I replied, hoping that would end the discussion, but of course I was talking with a world-class negotiator who happened to be a romantic too. 

“This isn’t like you—not the you since Laura came along,” she pressed on though her tone was gentle. “You strike me as very attentive and considerate—” 

I rolled my eyes. “Too bloody considerate, apparently—” 

“JRay,” she cajoled, using her schoolgirl nickname for me. “You know that was her anxiety talking. Christ, she’s been through a lot in the past few months—mostly wonderful but right now, pretty shitty. Cut her some slack.” I uncrossed arms I hadn’t realized had been crossed and fiddled with a hangnail on my right thumb. 

“Why don’t you invite her down with us? There’s plenty of room, Becs would love to see her and so would I. Loads of coastline for long walks…and talks,” Lulu trailed off as she turned off the motorway. 

“Hmmph, I’ll think about it.” I looked at her satnav and gave her directions to our destination, then only 10 minutes away. We all took in lungfuls of briny, sea-and-sun air and grinned; let the mini-holiday begin. 

After unloading the car, we felt hot and needed to cool off. We all donned bathing suits and checked out the pool. Becs always loved when I pretended to fall in so I did that for her, gasping at the delicious coolness of the water vis-à-vis my hot skin. I wore a navy bikini that was a bit faded by chlorine and sun over the years, Lulu a racing-green tankini and Becca a racer-back one-piece in lime green. The pool could not have been nicer or better equipped. There were a couple of floating chairs, some pool noodles and teak lounge chairs under an umbrella. Becs and I swam a bit, played net-less volleyball and challenged each other to underwater handstands while Lulu made burgers on the outdoor gas grill. 

After we devoured the burgers and crisps like hungry wolves, Lulu and I caught some rays while reading and Becs swam laps before climbing out and wrapping her long, lean body in a thick fluffy towel. The sun and the sangria that Lulu had brought made me sleepy and I dozed off. 

I woke about half an hour later to Becs coaxing me into another handstand contest. It was then about 2 pm, the sun was directly overhead and another dip sounds idyllic. Within minutes, we were all giggling (or honking, as they told me) as Lulu ranked us. Her scores tended to favor her flesh and blood. 

At one point, I completed my handstand and stood back up in the waist-high water to see my rating. As I flipped my hair out of my eyes, there she was. I blinked to make sure I wasn’t seeing a sun-induced mirage. Still there. Dr Laura Hobson. Wearing a one-piece black swimsuit under a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She stood just outside the back door, watching me, a slight, hesitant smile raising the right side of her mouth, sunglasses hiding her eyes. 

I stood stock still for a moment, panting from holding my breath during my acrobatics. I glanced at Lulu, who had a mischievous smile on her face as she welcomed her guest, asking how the drive was, would she like some sangria? Without taking her eyes off me, Laura answered, thanking Lulu for inviting her (aha!), indicating the drive was easy and yes, she would love sangria. While Lulu dashed inside to fill another glass and urged Becca out so she could apply some sunscreen to her “in the house”, Laura slipped off her glasses. 

Her blue eyes seemed to simmer in the sun as they raked over my body. My nipples, damn them, gave me away, hardening under her candid ogling. 

She walked toward a lounge chair, pried off her barrel-knotted Converse with her toes and came to the edge of the pool. Staring down at me, she whispered “Hi. Er, how’s the water?” 

I cleared my throat and crossed my arms over my chest. Anger. Arousal. Both coursed through my body, the latter already betraying me. Disappointment at Lulu for interfering. Gratitude at Lulu for interfering. I had wanted some time alone with Lulu and Becca. I had wanted time away from Laura to regain my bearings. My sense of self. Part of me wanted to pull Laura into the water and then walk away. Part of me wanted to get out of the pool and kiss her passionately and then see whether my bedroom was private enough for us to fuck. Part of me wanted to walk on the shoreline alone. Part wanted to walk holding her hand. 

I’m rubbish at poker. Laura could see the conflicting emotions on my face, her eyes tracked them and the smile faded from her eyes and mouth. 

“What are you doing here?” I mumbled, struggling and failing to keep the tension from my voice. 

Crestfallen, she backed away from the pool’s edge. “I had kind of hoped for a ‘What are you DOING here?’ ” her voice quite animated for the question but her look rueful. 

I swam to the ladder and hauled myself out. I grabbed a towel, quickly, roughly ran it over my head and wrapped it around myself. “Disappointment seems to be the watchword of the week,” I said stiffy and walked by her into the house. 

Lulu was just coming out with a glass of sangria for Laura. “Where’re you going?” 

“To take a shower. Alone. LHarri, I love you dearly but I’m none too pleased with you at the moment,” I said, using my schoolgirl nickname for her to soften my words. “You went behind my back and invited Laura. I’ve half a mind to leave right now.” 

She followed behind me up the stairs and into my room, closing the door behind us. “Jill, you have every right to be pissed. But please don’t go. I’m sorry, you two are such a great couple and I want you to be happy—you so deserve it. I figured you could both use some time away—hell this place is big enough!” 

I adjusted my towel, re-tucking the edge. “Admit it, you were happy to see her. Or at least part of you was,” she stared at my chest and gave me a sly wink. Not much escaped Lulu’s notice. “Oh come on, stop blushing. I’ve seen you naked plenty of times,” she teased me. 

That broke the ice and I had to smile. “Works both ways, love. Does Becs know about that tattoo on your arse?” 

Her eyes widened. “Oh you wouldn’t---” 

“No, I wouldn’t.” I rested a hand on her shoulder and sighed. “Lu, I know you were trying to help. But really, I had been looking forward to spending some time alone with you and Becs. Just the three of us. And I wanted some time away from Laura, for both of us.” 

Just then, there was a knock on the door. I walked over and opened it. Laura stood there, her face expressionless but she had been crying. I moved aside so she could enter. She addressed both of us, speaking rapidly and with sadness. 

“I’m heading out. Thank you for the invitation, Lulu. Jill, I’m so sorry I intruded on your family time. And I hope we can talk when we’re both back in Oxford. I came in part to deliver an apology. I hope I may do so another time. Good bye.” 

***

Laura had no sooner stepped out of the room and it felt like darkness fell across the room. Lulu looked like she was about to say something but, duly chastised, only gazed at me and held her hands palms front. 

My towel came undone again and I didn’t bother to replace it as I stumbled out of it and sprinted down the stairs. Laura was already outside. Ignoring the hot gravel biting into my bare feet, I ran over to her Volvo where she was putting her suitcase in the hatch. 

“Laura,” I put my hands on her shoulders as she turned to face me. “Please stay. Don’t go. We can talk,” I said earnestly. I pushed my fingertips into her hair, kneading her scalp. She smelled of the sea and sunshine. 

She gazed up at me, trying to read my expression and sincerity. “Really? You really want me to stay?” 

I answered her concern with the tenderest, lightest of kisses. First on her cheeks then to her lips. “Does that answer your question, Dr Hobson? Do you need more proof?” 

“You know me, Inspector, science always leads,” she murmured and returned the kiss in full, nudging my lips apart with her tongue to gain more evidence. My welcoming groan seemed to do it. 

After a few moments, I realized my feet suddenly hurt. “Damn, this driveway’s hot! Shall we go back to the pool? There’s a sangria waiting for you and some cool water for me,” I noted drily, reaching for her case. 

“Let’s…Jill? Thank you. You’re more gracious than I deserve,” she said, linking arms with me. 

On the threshold of the house, I stopped. “I have a selfish side, you know. I want to see you wearing only that swimsuit,” I said cheekily, not quick enough to dodge the pinch she gave my arse in response. I yelped like a puppy. 

“Oi, you two—just remember there’s a child present,” Lulu kidded us as she came to the foyer to greet us. She welcomed Laura formally with an elegant little bow and a glass of chilled sangria. “C’mon, into the pool to cool off!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to BramwellBern for suggesting Poole as a non-Brighton holiday spot, to RK for reintroducing me to Jocelyn and Maggie, and to RainbowKatie, Claire07, Lapal and Sindt for their generous comments. Dedicated to LEM, the best wife ever, on our 18th wedding anniversary. Thank you for helping me soar.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mature for F/F activities.

As her mea culpa for playing Cupid, Lulu took Becs for a stroll down to the waterfront to give us some privacy. I sat down on the edge of the pool, dangling my lower legs and feet in the blissfully cool water, and watched as Laura stripped off. 

First the t-shirt, revealing the firm breasts with erect nipples shadowed under the lycra. Then, bending forward, she shucked her shorts and kicked off her sneakers. She stood up, looking a bit shy, as she watched me taking in the sight of her. She tucked her lower lip into her mouth and kept her gaze down as if the tile around the pool was the most fascinating sight. 

Of course, I’d seen her countless times already entirely naked. But there was something special about seeing the woman I love and desire in a swimsuit that left little to the imagination. From the “North Star” beauty marks above her left breast just peeking over the top of the suit to the stray curls of brown hair at the cuff on her thighs down to muscular quads and taut calves, I took in Laura’s natural beauty anew. 

“You are the most gorgeous woman alive,” I told her sincerely. I knew she sometimes needed a boost of self-confidence and was more than happy to assist. 

The pink on her cheeks came from more than time in the sun. “And you’ve spent too much time in the sun today,” she quipped, but I could see her shoulders relax as she strode forward and sat next to me poolside. 

“And how is it you can rock a bloody bikini at 45 like a teenager? Way to give us old broads a complex, Raymond,” she said, once again eying my body. She leaned forward and kissed me, tugging on my upper lip with her teeth and making me growl when she pulled back. 

“Right, let’s cool off a bit before we both spontaneously combust!” Laura said, giving me a shove into the pool. She followed a moment later, hooting as the water temperature surprised her. “I thought this was heated?!” 

“Well it is after dark apparently,” I said, swimming over to her and guiding her so her back was against the tiled wall of the pool. “We’ll have to try it, for scientific purposes,” I teased her, flicking her earlobe with my tongue. My thigh glided between her legs and pressed into her. I rocked back and forth into her while kissing her neck, being careful not to leave marks we’d have to explain to my niece. Small mewing sounds told me Laura approved of my technique. 

Then it was my turn to moan as her hand cupped and rubbed my mons through my bikini bottoms. Her other hand was busy with my nipple. “Something tells me you’re very wet,” she smirked and then giggled. 

My hands rose and I backed away, breathing heavily, my clit pulsing. “OK, before this reaches a point of no return, we need to stop. It wouldn’t do for Lulu and Becca to return early and find us like this. And you’re right, we do need to talk.” I realized that desire had made my voice sound rougher than I meant it to. 

“Darling, why don’t we towel off and then take a shower--separately. Maybe get something to eat and then walk along the beach, hmm?” That time, I got the tone right and Laura nodded. We both waded up the steps and over to our loungers and towels.   
***  
I felt as though we were on more even footing again, after our dip on the wild side, as it were. I took in Jill’s lithe, lanky figure as she strode out of the pool and then, draping the towel round her shoulders like a terry-cloth scarf, walked up the stairs in front of me. 

Good God, that bum. I wanted to pull down her bikini bottom and run my tongue over it, sink my teeth into that firm peachy flesh. Time for that later, Laura, I told myself and obediently kept my hands, tongue, and teeth to myself. 

Jill showered first in the spacious en-suite’s glass-enclosed shower stall. Her fair skin, usually hidden under long sleeve and trousers, had a light shell-pink glow, particularly noticeable around the slim tan lines left by her bikini top and bottom. She lathered up but paused before washing her nether region. 

“What?” I asked, feigning innocence. “Not suddenly shy?” 

She pursed her lips and winced. “I’m, uh, still a bit sensitive down there. No thanks to you, Dr Hobson,” her hazel eyes boring into me while her lips quirked a lopsided smile.   
“Hmm, I’d better leave you for a few minutes or we’ll never make it out of this room,” I told her as I left. Striping off my wet suit, I rolled it in the towel and hung it to dry on a hanger in front of the closet. I heard a gasp behind me and turned to see Jill had stopped towel-drying her hair to stare at me. Once again, her arousal was evident as she licked her lips. 

“Later,” I reminded her and put a little extra sway in my hips as I walked past her into the steamy bathroom.


	68. Lemon and Garlic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more angst but our Jill and Laura get back on track.

I texted Lulu to let her know that Laura and I would be walking down to the water, probably having dinner and would be back later. She sent back a gif of an audience wildly applauding. Wise arse. 

And wrote: 

“Why do you think I make sure you got the bedroom farthest from my daughter’s? 😉”

Once we’d both showered and dressed in shorts and untucked button-down shirts, hair still damp, we strolled down to the waterfront, chatting about Becca, a wool shop Laura had discovered online for them to explore, about the ruins of nearby Corfe Castle that Miss Katie (upon hearing of her trip to Poole) suggested they might enjoy visiting. Hmm, I thought peevishly, so even her old friend knew about Laura coming down to join us, but I didn’t. At one point, Laura tried to hold my hand; I held hers for a minute but then let go, some of the happiness I had felt back at the house had slid away like the tide. 

The sea air, sun and the hour had us both hungry, so we opted to eat first. A casual seafood restaurant offered al fresco dining overlooking the water; its tables sat mostly couples or families with older children. The fare ranged from fish and chips to Mediterranean king prawns and a couple of Thai seafood dishes. We sat next to each other at a table for four, our waiter lighting a citrusy tea light that echoed the faerie lights looped round the royal-blue picket fencing that cordoned off the restaurant from the rest of the quay. It was then closer to 4:30, the families having gone home or to left to give kiddos an early dinner and bed before returning for a parents’ evening out, babysitter holding down the home front. A few shoppers milled about as did a few older couples, hoping to secure an early-bird special for supper as they checked the posted menu. 

We decided to share a starter of fresh hummus, feta and Greek olives, dipping the warmed pita wedges in the lemony, garlicy hummus. As our main courses, Laura chose the aforenoted king prawn dish and I decided on a Thai prawn curry and coconut plate. After a few mouthfuls of food for each of us, I began our over-due conversation, welcoming the elephant in the room to join us. 

“So…” I began, popping a briny black olive and a small chunk of feta into my mouth. “Lulu called you?” 

Laura ducked her head, nodding as she put down a slice of pita and hummus she was about to place in her mouth. “I assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that the invite had your blessing. That wasn’t Lulu’s fault, it was purely mine. I wanted to think you were ok with me coming down. I know you were gobsmacked when I showed up. I’m sorry you were caught off-guard. But I hadn’t heard back from you and wanted to speak with you.”

I swallowed. When I spoke, I kept my voice soft, though her comment irked me. I wanted us to be able to talk calmly about these issues, having been through enough devolved shouting matches with Helen and others in the past. “While I am now glad you’re here, I have to be honest. I quite deliberately did not return your text last night. I had told you I would not want to discuss our conversation last night. I meant it. 

“And, while I very likely would have returned your text this morning, I didn’t feel like doing when I received it. We were enjoying our drive down and I didn’t wish to interrupt it or be distracted from it. Becca is growing up so quickly and I cherish any free moment I have with her. And Lu, whom I don’t get to see as often as I’d like to either,” I said, pausing to take a sip of water. 

I took a deep breath and exhaled. “In the past week or so, I realized how little time I had spent lately with my family. I mean Dad, Sally and Mickey, Lu, Hal and Becca. Lulu called me last night after I texted her. I wanted to see whether she, Hal or Becca were available for me to come for a visit when she explained that the opportunity to stay here had just dropped in her lap. Had we not had our falling out, I probably would have invited you myself—after checking with Lulu—but I was grateful for a chance to spend time with them alone too.” 

I reached for Laura’s hand, ran my thumb along hers. “You’re now my family too,” I added with a smile. Laura answered with a slight smile of her own. “But we fell in love so quickly and so much happened in such a short period of time. I didn’t realize I was feeling overwhelmed until after yesterday in the car park.” 

I could see her smile dim. “I was looking forward to spending time with you this week, Laura, but when you behaved as you did…that fell away. And I realized that perhaps a little time apart might be a good thing, at least for me.” 

***

I withdrew my hand from Jill’s when she said that. Tears pooled in my eyes. Damn. 

The waiter approached but Jill kindly gave him the thumbs-up and a slight nod and he left us alone. I pulled my sunglasses from on top of my head back over my eyes.   
Jill reached under the table and put her hand on my thigh. 

“Sweetheart,” she said tenderly.

I squirmed to shake off her hand. “No, please don’t be affectionate with me right now. I was wrong and I need to hear you out and accept it. But if you show me more kindness, I will be a puddle in no time flat.” After a moment of composing myself, I swallowed the lump in my throat and responded. “So, you’re not saying you want to break up with me, only that you may need some space?” 

Jill’s eyes widened in surprise and she shook her head. She chewed an olive and swallowed. “Good Lord, darling, no I don’t want to break up with you! I love being with you. I mean it, you are my family now too. It’s just that…” she thought for a moment, wanting to express herself as accurately as possible. “Like you, I’m used to being on my own. I think circumstances—and new love—brought us together very quickly and intensely. You’re still adjusting to being in a relationship with an out lesbian. I’m adjusting too. I can understand now why you reacted as you did yesterday at the station. But we need to learn to communicate better.” 

“And,” she said, her tone kind but firm, “Disagreements are one thing. But I won’t accept being treated as you treated me yesterday. It was not only what you said, but how you said it and where you said it—you gave me a bollocking in the car park of my station.” 

I held up my hands in a “surrender” position. Which our waiter, who’d returned, took as a sign to clear away our appetizer plates. Well, Jill and her amazing metabolism had polished off most of the hummus and pita. 

“You’re absolutely right. I wanted to speak with you last night to apologize. I understand that you needed space after that. Jill, I’m so sorry. I-I’d like to explain what I was feeling, so you understand, but not to excuse my behavior. OK?” Jill nodded, and of course our waiter brought two delicious-looking plates to our table. 

I told her that I too had felt overwhelmed in the past week, primarily due to the initials case, not due to anything she had done. “You’ve been wonderful, Jill, every step of the way. And you’ve always checked in with me to see what I needed, how I was feeling. I’m not used to that, to someone being there for me. It wasn’t smothering but I suppose I felt, well, undeserving.” I gave a rueful chuckle. “You can lay the blame for that at the feet of Dr Hazel Hobson. Or mine for not having dealt with the trauma of growing up with a narcissistic mother sooner. Amazing how when you’re on your own you don’t see the baggage piled up around you. I feel as though I’ve just woken up and now see more baggage than in a train depot.

“I lashed out at the person in the world who deserved it the least. Will you, can you, forgive me, Jill?” 

*** 

Of course I could, I told Laura. Perhaps it was something we could work on together, I said. We each had very intense careers and may need to find ways to balance our needs. And this time when I reached for her hand, she gave it willingly. I so love you, I fervently told her. And I you, she said, her eyes finally releasing a few tears. 

Her appetite returned, Laura dug into her garlic, lemon prawn dish that echoed our starter in its flavor profile. She moaned as the first bite of the large shrimp met her tastebuds. “Oh, you have to try this!” she said, placing another piece on her fork, swirling it in the light sauce and feeding it to me. Her blue eyes lit up as I sampled it and nodded in agreement. 

I repeated the same gesture with my Thai prawn dish, spearing a large section of prawn in its orangey curry sauce. And so we found our way back from the black cloud that had darkened our emotional landscape for the past 24 hours. Through handling an awkward-if-necessary conversation, through sharing excellent food in a neutral setting.   
We decided to skip dessert for the time being. The shoreline had been beckoning all through dinner as the waves crashed and rolled about 50 meters away. Laura insisted on buying dinner. I thanked her with a kiss on the cheek when we got down to the beach. Apart from a lone dog walker and another couple strolling along in the opposite direction, we had the place to ourselves. 

She turned to glare at me with a mock-stern look. “You can kiss me on the lips, if you like. I’ve gotten over myself about that now. I promise.” And I did, a kiss that blossomed like a beautiful peony, soft, multi-layered in its lushness. Laura moaned into my mouth as she coaxed my lips open with her tongue. She wrapped her arms around me, reaching her right hand up to the back of my head to pull me closer. “Right now,” she said her voice low and husky, “I can’t get enough of you.” 

***

Kissing Jill was like finding my way home. We let our tongues and lips flirt and dance for several minutes until a squawking seagull startled us apart. The bird tilted its head in wonder when Jill’s honking laughter rang out. We used that as a cue to take off our sneakers and walk along the unfurling white waves, arm through arm. 

“I had a thought,” I told her as we stopped, left our shoes up past the water line and waded in up to our knees. The water felt cool and clean, the horizon clear on this sunny day. Jill turned to me, a slight smile quirked one side of her face. “I’m all ears.” 

“How long were you planning to stay here?” I asked. Jill said at least three more days. Lulu didn’t have to go back to work til the following Monday and she didn’t either. “Well, how would you feel about us splitting up tomorrow?” Her mouth fell open. 

I hurried to finish the thought. “Only for the day. There’s a bookstore I’d like to visit, alone, to research more on different topics—healing from narcissistic mothers, for one—and I know you mentioned spending some time with Becca. I can see the benefit to each of us having time independent of one and other. Maybe we all meet up for dinner later?” 

I grinned. “Darling, that sounds like a perfectly wonderful idea. I can make breakfast tomorrow and we can go on our merry ways afterward. Though, come to think of it, I may have to leave Lu and Becs to get their own breakfast. I’d like to sleep in a bit…with you,” I murmured, my voice low and growly next to her ear. I pretended to snap and nibble at her earlobe like a hungry wolf. 

“Mmm, Just try getting me out of bed sooner,” Laura said. I could see her look around and then she gave my right arse cheek a squeeze. “Been wanting to do that since you walked up the stairs ahead of me in that bikini.” 

“Are you really ok with some PDA now, with me?” I asked. “I am sorry that I didn’t think to ask you about that. We’d simply never been in that situation before.” 

“Well, I’ve done some thinking about that. You did nothing wrong, it was actually a very sweet, spontaneous reaction to getting the cactus. Perhaps I had a tinge of internalized homophobia to work through. Because I wouldn’t have batted an eye if a man I was seeing did that in front of colleagues. You see, I’ve already done some research. Found ‘internalized homophobia’…” Laura said with a touch of quiet pride. 

I wrapped her in a tight hug, kissed her forehead. “You.are.amazing, my love. I’m so proud of you. And, for the record, I don’t care how you choose to identify yourself, whether along the LGBT spectrum or not. Also, for the record, I promise not to squeeze YOUR perfect bum in front of either of our colleagues.” 

We laughed and cuddled and kissed lightly for several minutes before resuming our walk. I looked at our footprints in the wet sand, her smaller ones with the bump out from the bunions along her big toes, my longer, wider ones. Suddenly, I had an idea. I pulled away from her, asked her to turn around (“No peeking, Hobson!”), and I began using my right foot to draw shapes and letters in the sand. Usually, I would have gone with our initials, but I was sensitive to her experiences of the past week. 

“OK, turn, please. Ta-da!” I said with a flared arm and a bow. Inside a sand-carved, foot-wide heart, I’d drawn: 

“Jill + Laura 4Ever” 

Laura’s smile told me all I needed to know. “Oh, you beautiful, silly blonde bear, I do love you so!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sand heart is dedicated to my wife, for whom I made such a heart on our first visit to a summertime beach. Love you, babe.   
> My gratitude, as always, to you readers for your comments and feedback.


	69. Sea Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our couple gets frisky. 
> 
> To be continued in the following chapter. Because...anticipation. ;-) 
> 
> Both this and the next chapter are rated Explicit for F/F activities.

She took a photo of the heart with her iPhone and then kissed me again, a kiss that spoke volumes of love and desire. Perhaps, Laura whispers coyly, we should go home and continue this in the privacy of our room. 

“No dessert?” I grumbled, half in jest. She relented somewhat (“You’re all the dessert I need, Raymond.”) and let me stop for a “cannoli”-flavored gelato cone. Of course, Laura being the sexy vixen she was/is, she had to take advantage of the situation when I offered her some. She licked her lips and, holding my hand on the cone in hers as if we were sharing a cigarette, “went down on” the peak of the gelato and licked it so sensually I would have dropped the cone had she not been holding it too. 

“Bloody hell, Laura,” I murmured. I swear I could feel every swipe of her tongue in my clit. Imagined each lick on my nipples and destinations south. 

“You insisted on getting dessert, Jill. Couldn’t wait til we got home…” she teased me, releasing my hand but holding onto my lower back so I didn’t sway too much. Then she leaned forward and nibbled a bit of the waffle cone. “I’d prefer your earlobe or nipple but…” 

Then I got an idea. Looking around to see if anyone could be watching us on the side road up from the beachfront and seeing no one, I took a bite of the gelato and pulled Laura to me for a kiss. My tongue slid the creamy coldness into her mouth. Her tongue caught it and she moaned. Swallowing after a moment, she gasped. 

“Home. Now,” Laura said emphatically. She put an exclamation point on her directive with a tight squeeze of my arse. 

We hurried home in the fading light.

***

When we got back to the house, strings of lights, songs from The Beatles’ “Help!” album, and the scent of citronella indicated Lulu and Becca were hanging out pool side. To the bouncy strains of “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” we said our hellos and good nights to them both within a few minutes. Both looked happy and sun-kissed and that made me smile. We exchanged hugs all around—I whispered my thanks to Lulu when we embraced—and then Laura and I headed up the stairs to our bedroom. The door was closed, though I thought we’d left it ajar. 

I opened it and we both sucked in a breath in wonder. Beach-scented tealights bathed the room with subtle scent and cozy lighting. A large glass pitcher of iced water sat, condensation drizzling slowly down the outside, on one of the bedside tables along with two glasses. The tealight candles flickered from within an eclectic variety of glasses, casting individual shadows. (We found out later that the tealight scent was Becs’ idea, the glasses, her mum’s, both a token of welcome and Lulu’s apology for inviting Laura.) 

“Faeries snuck in and transformed the room for us,” I said in a low voice as I stood behind Laura and wrapped my arms around to her torso. “We should take full advantage of this magic, hmm?” I began by nuzzling Laura’s neck, burrowing my nose and mouth into her thick blonde hair and along the nape of her neck. “So beautiful…God, I can’t wait to taste you,” I said in a hushed tone for her ears only. 

Her arms hung limply at her sides, her head lolled to one side, granting my eager mouth access to her neck and ear. My fingers slowly began unbuttoning her shirt. She tried to help but I moved her arms to her sides again.

“No, love, let me. Please,” I urged in a low whisper. She whimpered as the cool pads of my fingers glossed over her still sun-warmed upper chest, dipped inside the lace of her bra cups to stroke the treasures they held. 

I lowered the shirt off her shoulders and, mindful of the slightly pinked skin, planted gentle kisses all along the base of her neck, outward to the muscles of her shoulders. My hands gently massaged the tension from her I felt them relax under my lips, chuckled to myself at the mewing sounds she made when my mouth cupped the ball were her deltoid muscles met and my teeth grazed the surface like a fisherman’s net dragging the shore. 

“God, what you’re doing to me…” Laura mumbled. Her head was thrown back, mouth slack, nipples firm and proud…and free once I unhooked her bra and slipped it off. I gathered her breasts in my hands, kneading them lightly as my thumbs circled the tightening areolae. Laura’s breath shallowed, her pulse thrummed visible on her neck. While my fingers foreplayed with her sweet breasts, my mouth sucked on her neck, tasting the sea breeze and breathing in the faded crispness of her cologne. I feasted on her, the front of my body pressed into the back of hers, groaning out my own need and delight at her body and its responses. My fingers very slowly meandered down her abdomen with its soft skin and its muscularity just below the surface. I could feel her abdominal muscles stretching and contracting as her hips began to rock, trying to coax my hands lower still. 

“Patience, love,” I whispered into her ear, and felt the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck rise up, thrilled. My fingernails stroked her tummy, danced across its surface, dared to skip farther down as she quickly unzipped her shorts and pulled them down, along with her knickers. 

“My, you are impatient tonight, hmm?” She yelped as the flat of my hand delivered a quick, cracking slap to her buttock—not hard enough to signal a shift into S/M, (which neither of us had agreed to)—just enough to wordlessly convey “Naughty”. 

“Jill…please…touch me,” Laura pleaded, squirming to maneuver my hand where she wanted it. I am touching you, darling, I replied, as my left hand rose back to her right breast and my right hand painted ever-widening circles on her lower abdomen. She rewarded me with a needy moan and gripped my right hand to guide it down to meet the thatch of damp pubic hair and below. 

“Now,” she demanded through gritted teeth. Her right hand thrust mine into her silky wetness, and she groaned as my fingers grazed her swollen clit. I granted her wish for a few moments, gliding my fingers up and down over her slit, adding a flourish when I skimmed her clitoral hood between my index and middle fingers. 

“Oh, Laura, you are such a treat,” I murmured as I brought my glistening fingers to my mouth for a taste. 

“Jill…” she began with a huff. 

“You know, I think I have entirely too much clothing on, don’t you?” I asked rhetorically as I backed away from her and turned her around to face me. Her eyes dark blue and somewhat unfocused with arousal, lips parted and dry, breath coming in pants, Laura Hobson was incredibly sexy. She immediately began trying to unbutton my shirt but her fingers were making a hash of it. She pouted beautifully in frustration. 

“Uh-uh, nope. Remember, you took off your own shorts and panties, so you only get to watch me do the same,” I said, smirking at her. At a glacier’s melting pace (circa 1800 not 2015), I mindfully unfastened each button, pulled off my shirt and did the same with my bra, a robin’s egg blue number I knew she would love. I cupped my hands over my own breasts, applying delicate pressure to my sensitive nipples with my thumbs. Laura stared at me as if her life depended on not breaking eye contact, licking her lips. 

“Your shorts, may I? We’re even now,” she persuaded in a husky voice. I lowered my hands and nodded with a wolfish grin. 

“As you wish,” I said. Laura lost no time in yanking down my drawstring shorts and knickers together, nearly toppling us both in her fierce desire. 

“Steady on, Doctor. Your bedside manner is a bit brusque tonight,” I teased her. She shut me up with a passionate kiss on the lips and a thumb circling my clit. Well now, I thought and let her lead for a while. A true win-win scenario, as the Americans would say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Living vicariously through characters taking a seashore holiday? Why the heck not! ;-) Hope you're enjoying their vacation too. 
> 
> Thanks so much again for your compliments and comments. I will respond to each this week. :-)


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter contains explicit F/F activities. And very little else. ;-)

We made love for a few hours, giving and taking, keeping our moans and groans muffled, burning through two sets of tealights. Lulu had thoughtfully provided back ups and a long lighter. We fell asleep snuggled together, sated and feeling very much loved. 

When I woke up and used the bathroom, the sun was rising, the air fresh and Jill Raymond looked thoroughly adorable and sexy as she slept. Spread-eagle and naked on her back, sheet covering her to her waist. One hand on her stomach over the now-healed scar, the other curled out where it had held me. Her blonde mane looked like someone had taken a hand-mixer to it. Her lips were slightly parted, and she snuffled and murmured through a dream. 

I couldn’t hear any sound of Lulu or Becca being awake and about. Hmm, maybe time to try something I’d wanted to for a while. 

I eased my way back into Jill’s outstretched arm and cuddled against her. She barely stirred. Excellent. I bit back a giggle. 

I reached forward and verrryy lightly circled her left areola with my fingertip. Nothing. I did it again. The second time was the charm. Jill shifted slightly with a grunt and pulled me into a half-embrace. After the third circle, her pink areola puckered, and she opened her left eye. 

“Mmm, what’re you doing, Hobson?” she slurred in a husky just-woke-up voice that was like a thumb-twirl to my clit. 

“What’s it feel like I’m doing, Raymond? You’re the detective,” I saucily replied. I switched the direction of my circles to gauge the response. The other eye opened and then both squinted closed and she gasped. 

“Remember how we wondered whether you could come from only your breasts being played with?” I asked as I began to stroke her then-pebbled nipple between my thumb and index finger. She whimpered and huffed out a breath. Oh, she remembered alright. I could smell it. 

I dipped two fingers to between her legs and was greeted by her wet arousal. Jill bit her lower lip as, then fully awake, she watched me slide into her vagina and pull out some glossy moisture. Eyes widened, she watched as I brought the fingers to my nose and then lips, sampled some with a moan, and then painted her nipples til they simmered in the morning light. 

Jill groaned loudly. I clamped my hand across her mouth and whispered an urgent “Ssshh. I’ll keep going but you have to be very quiet, my love. Can you do that for me?” She nodded, inhaled her own scent on my fingers and let out a small whimper. 

“That’s better, thank you,” I said primly as if I were conducting a scientific experiment. I maintained eye contact with Jill while I rose to my knees and lowered my mouth to her chest. The air left her mouth in a whoosh, followed by a mewing sound I never expected to hear from the stoic blonde. 

I suckled first one breast and then the other. Jill’s hips undulated, her long legs kicking in slow motion as she tried to satisfy the ache building between her legs. I took pity on her and momentarily pressed the palm of my hand against her mons and public bone. 

Jill grunted, tried to capture my hand between those strong, toned thighs so I withdrew my hand. “I can always go back to that later,” I said, my tone not unsympathetic. She breathed out a snort or two of skepticism. 

“Well, if you’re going to pout, I can simply stop what I’m—” 

“No, Laura, please don’t stop. Please…” Jill begged. She grabbed my upper arms to emphasize her point, squeezing and then let her arms flop back down when I continued.  
I sucked, twirled my tongue, pinched with my fingers and then nibbled with my teeth. Jill snagged my pillow and mouthed a corner of it through the pillow case so she wouldn’t groan too loudly. 

I rewarded her creativity with some of my own. I sat up, straddled her chest and lightly rubbed my own bush and clit over each breast. It felt bloody amazing every time her nipple got raked across those ultra-sensitive nerve endings. 

“See what you do to me? Can you feel it?” I asked rhetorically. I could see, feel and smell the answer. I knew I couldn’t hold that position for long so I returned my mouth to her one breast and my hand to the other. 

“You getting close?” I inquired with a whisper that vibrated into her nipple, never ceasing my actions. 

“Mm, don’t stop…Please…” Jill closed her eyes to focus on the exquisite tension building within her. Her breath came in ragged grunts, hips rolling and bucking, long fingers gripping the bedsheet as if for life. With a couple of groans of my name, Jill came as I held my squeeze on one nipple and bit into the other. She put one hand over her mouth to muffle the deep moan that erupted from it. I looked down and saw the bottom sheet darken beneath her bum. I hadn’t even touched her G-spot. 

Jill shook and rocked with the aftershocks. I dared not enter her, concerned she would scream the house down, and I lay down next to her and simply held her snug against my chest. 

Jill Raymond was completely and utterly unraveled. “Bloody.hell.Hobson,” was all she could mutter. 

"The experiment is complete. Hypothesis confirmed: You're so easy," I told her. We both chuckled. 

Within a few minutes, I got myself off and we dozed off in the sunlight.


	71. Sea Spray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our ladies continue their holiday week at the seashore.

I woke up for the second time that morning around 9. I heard floorboard creak outside our bedroom door followed by something being placed on the floor, a 1-2 “room service” type rap on the door and then the board creaking as footsteps retreated down the hallway. 

Laura slept on, looking astonishingly angelic given the devilish hijinks she’d performed earlier. The thought of it (coupled with the towel over the bottom sheet on my side of the bed) immediately shot a frisson of hot arousal through my body. Damn, she was an exceptionally tactile and creative lover. 

After throwing a shirt on, I tiptoed to the door and peeked out. On a butler’s tray, Lulu had left a French press of aromatic coffee, waiting to be plunged, milk, raw sugar, two mugs, a glass bowl of fresh raspberries drizzled with chocolate sauce and fresh croissants each the size of two of my fists. A note in her distinctive half-written, half-cursive handwritten thanked us for “not frightening the horses (or waking my darling daughter, thus saving me a shit-ton of questions LOL”. She said she and Becs would be poolside for a while and we’d be welcome to join them but would understand if we wanted to “sleep in”. 

“Hmm, what is it?” Laura opened her eyes, squinting against the sunlight bathing the room. Hair tussled, luscious breasts just in view above the top sheet, she made my heart skip a beat and my clit pulse awake. Dear God, she was sexy. 

I explained Lulu’s note and her gift of breakfast. Could I pour her a coffee? Yes, please, she replied, smiling as she scratched her head and scooted up to rest her back against the wooden headboard. She didn’t bother covering her now fully exposed torso. Instead, seeing my fixed gaze, she winked and smirked at me. 

“Christ, Raymond! You hungry again?” she flirted with mock-irritation, enjoying the blush on my face and my stammered “No, yes…for food…erm”. I hastily put the tray down on the bed between us. Hearty laughter greeted me as I slid back into bed. She kissed my cheek and assured me she loved seeing me tongue-tied. 

“And unraveled, like earlier,” she added, slowly popping a ripe raspberry into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “You really did come from only your breasts being played with,” she said, still seemingly surprised. 

I took a sip of delicious coffee and raised my eyebrows. “Told you I probably could,” I scoffed. “They may be small but they’re hyper-sensitive. Sometimes even a strong gust of wind…” 

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not going to rain on my successful experiment,” she retorted smugly. 

I held up my hands, palms forward. “Right, you win. Fine with me because I won too,” I told her. I picked up a raspberry, licked off the sauce and then put it in my mouth. An action that left Laura slack-jawed and unable to issue a comeback line. 

“Truce?” I asked, innocently. 

She swallowed hard. “Truce.” Then we both laughed and hugged and kissed “good morning” before settling back to enjoy our breakfast. 

After a joint quick shower, we walked out to the pool together, hand in hand. “Aunties!” yelled Becs. “I thought you would never wake up.” Lulu winked at me behind her daughter’s back. 

I sat down alongside my niece, our lower legs dangling in the water, while I finished another mug of coffee Laura brought me from the table. Laura had grabbed her waxed canvas tote and, after kissing my head, said “TTFN, darling” and strolled off for a walk into town for her solo day. She said she planned to visit a bookshop, maybe get a pedicure and “simply be”. 

I surprised Becca by telling her that I’d secured the rental of a small motorboat to run around the harbor and outside of its waters. Her mum announced she was going for a spa-day at a local facility that offered yoga, massage, and body treatments. Becs and I dried our feet and slipped unto trainers, I grabbed my knapsack of supplies, and we took off at a nice saunter, Becs chatting a mile a minute and me smiling and listening. We stopped at a small gourmet grocer for some sandwiches, crisps and waters for the boat ride, then walked down to the dock where the perky blue-and-white “Amelia” bobbed slightly on the deep blue water. Known as a cuddy cabin boat, the day cruiser had a teensy cabin below that held a small bunk, head and fridge. 

The owner, a female captain in her 40s who also owned several larger boats for cruises, walked me through the simple steering wheel and engine controls, the cabin, the life vests she strongly suggested we wear (and we quickly donned) and wished us a lovely time. I had booked Amelia for 4 hours, allowing time to take her back and forth, anchor for lunch, sunbath if we so chose. The small boat could comfortable sit five so we had plenty of room besides the two cabin chairs to stretch out on towels I’d brought. 

Becs and I looked at each other and grins wreathed our faces. We each pulled out a hat from our respective bags—my favorite ballcap for me, an olive bucket hat for her—liberally applied sunscreen to our arms, legs and neck and I push-started the motor. Away we went! 

I was grateful Becs had a small, close-knit cluster of friends from school, whom Hal and Lulu included on family vacations and sleep-overs whenever possible. In fact, I planned to talk with Becca on our day cruise about hosting her and a friend or two before school began. 

Being childless by choice, I tried to fill in the gaps whenever I could, sort of big sis cum aunt. And, also with her “bratty” though charming brother Harry, who was splitting his time between his maternal grandfather’s home in Scotland and away camp with other boisterous 9-year-olds. Becs and I texted nearly every day, sometimes communicating exclusively in emojis, which usually ended up with her calling me to laugh outrageously (in her mini “honk”) at my clumsily thumbed replies. (“Auntie J, I think you just told me that you shat yourself!” “Uh, whoops!”) Harry liked to send me word-free texts of the contents of his mouth (half-chewed meals) to have me guess their origins as well as naughty things he did to Becca’s stuffed animal collection. 

The coastline was pristine, the water sparkled in the brilliant sunlight, and the temperature warmed up. After about half an hour on the water, we each simultaneously pulled off our t-shirts and applied sunscreen to the paler skin of our torso. Becca leaned more toward the tomboy side of things but truly was her own person. Her style seemed to effortlessly blend more feminine blouses with army surplus fatigues and Doc Marten boots, When she saw the waistcoat Laura had restored for me, she decided she too wanted one and she and a friend diligently trolled thrift shops near their homes til she found one straight out of a JRR Tolkien book jacket photo, tweedy green and brown. She added a gauzy bright orange scarf twisted double to make it her own look. Lulu told me how she learned from another student’s mother how Becca had pulled her shy, bullied daughter into Becca’s orbit of welcoming friends. When Lulu asked Becs about it, my niece simply looked at her and said, “Well, of course I did. Wouldn’t you or Auntie J?” I adored her. Still do. 

We chatted about the scenery as I ran the boat parallel to the shoreline. She marveled at the lack of clouds in the deep blue sky, at how many varied shades of blue she could see all around, from sky to sea, beach huts to umbrellas. We talked of her desire to explore hand dying skeins of yarn for projects, how she had seen a YouTube video on techniques for creating self-striping patterns for making socks, gradient color changes, speckles. She said her friend Tamsin wanted to try it too so they might may a day of it. 

I smiled at a memory. “Did you ever try tie-dying? Your mum and I did that a few times on summer hols. You do it with vats of hot water, rubber bands and whatever material you want to dye. Loads of fun, even if your hands stay purple for days. I don’t think your Great Aunt Sally ever forgave your mum for accidentally getting some dye on her West Highland white terrier, Scamp. Poor chap had a pink streak down his back for a month or so til it grew out or she trimmed it. He didn’t mind—was quite proud of it, I think—but Sally wanted Lu’s guts for garters,” I recalled with a snigger that ended in a honk. 

Becs spit out her mouthful of water onto my abdomen. “S-sorry! I should have known better to take a sip whilst you were telling a story!” She handed me a towel to dry off. As I did so, I could feel her eyes taking in the scar; it still had a little shine to it and was a pale coral pink in color. She bit her lower lip, a telltale sign for a looming question. 

Draping the towel over the seat back and slowing the engine, I glanced at her over my sunglasses. “Go on, Becs. Ask away.” I propped my feet on the dashboard and waited for her questions to begin. 

“Does it hurt?” She winced as she asked. I assured her it did not. “Quite the opposite. The area around it is a bit numb because a nerve was severed. In time the area may regain sensitivity, or it may not.” I shrugged to indicate I wasn’t concerned. 

“What was it like, were you frightened?” she asked, tucking her long legs into a lotus position as she sat in the other seat. 

I thought for a moment, partially to remember, partially to determine how much I should tell her. I decided honesty was best. “I don’t think I had time to be frightened, Becs. I vaguely remember, as if it happened to someone else, that she thrust something at me. I felt a sharp pain but then don’t remember anything else. I guess I was in shock and then unconscious. One of my next memories was waking up at one point and seeing you and your dad. You two being there made me so happy, even if I couldn’t explain that.” 

“And Laura,” she noted with a smile. 

“Yup, and Laura,” I smiled back. 

“Did you love her then?” 

“I suppose I was starting to. We had just begun to realize we had feelings for each other, that we were becoming more than just friends.” I used my right big toe to scratch an itch on my left shin. Took a swig from my water bottle. The sun was high in the sky but the light breeze kept us refreshed. 

“It did seem to happen pretty quickly. Had you dated long?” Becca adjusted her hat lower over her eyes. 

The question, straight forward, the answer less so, I started to explain. She tilted her head quizzically. “We started off as friends who would get together for dinners on Friday or Saturday nights—” 

“Dates?” Becca had inherited her blunt “gene” from her mum. 

“No, not ‘dates’ in the romantic sense. Just dinners between colleagues who were becoming friends.” I wondered how far I could or should go with such a conversation and tried to hedge a bit. “Does your mum know you ask such pointed questions?” 

My niece laughed and nodded. “She’s the one who told me to ask you when I asked her. You don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable, Aunt Jill.” 

I cleared my throat. “I’m not uncomfortable, only surprised—though you’ve always been a direct so-and-so. Right, ok. I understood Laura was straight or at least had only dated men. And I truly was only looking for platonic friendship at the time.” 

“What changed? When did it change?” 

I thought for a moment, time sliding backward in waves. The boat gently rocked as the sea kissed its sides. “That’s a good question, Becs. I think my feelings snuck up on me. One day, just before the stabbing, as it turned out, I suddenly realized that, well, my feelings for Laura had become more than ‘just friends’. I looked forward to hearing her voice, seeing her smile, getting to know more and more about her, showing her more of myself too. I tend to be a fairly private person. I don’t share much about myself easily. But I wanted to let Laura in, so to speak. I even told her about the bears! (She grinned at that.) And that, to me, was another sign that I more than liked her. Does that make sense?” 

She nodded. 

“Are you getting hungry? I am.” I sat up and went below to retrieve our sandwiches from the small fridge. Ham, cheddar and sweet gerkins on one, ham, Brie and raspberry preserves on the other. We decided to each have a half of the sandwiches so we could sample them. The sea air, as it will do, made everything taste better. We chatted about her friends for a bit, her BFF being a girl named Lucretia Porter. 

Lord, why do parents give sweet innocent babies such odd first names, I wondered to myself. Was Wednesday already taken? Morticia? My question must have shown on my face. 

“We call her LP or L. She really loathes her first name—some long-dead great granny’s apparent, where the family money came from,” Becca explained, rubbing salty crisp dust off her hands. After balling up her sandwich wrapper and putting it in her tote, she stretched out on a beach towel, her back propped against the side of the boat. 

Becca switched subjects back to Laura, the other L word de jour. “I know Mum made the first move on Dad. Who made the first move: you or Laura?” 

I must have looked like a gargoyle fountain as the water I’d just chugged reappeared out of my mouth. “Rebecca!” I squeezed out before a coughing fit overtook me. Bloody hell.

“Are you ok, Aunt Jill?” she sprang up in alarm. After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than two minutes, my breathing and swallowing abilities returned to normal. For a brief moment, I wished the water was a gin and tonic to settle my nerves. 

“That’s a bit personal, Becs. And how do you know about your parents?” I knew what she said was true, having heard it from a very proud Lulu Harriman herself within hours of it occurring. 

Becca said she had simply asked her mother. Her father was too shy and had apparently had a similar reaction to mine. Then Hal had given his daughter the old “Go ask your mother” line. With a tenacity that her mother and any terrier worthy its weight would have admired, my niece tried another tactic. 

“I’m guessing it was Laura,” she hypothesized as she sat back down on the towel. “Because if it had been you, you’d have already admitted it, and because you thought she was straight whereas she knew you were a lesbian.” 

I had to laugh. “And if I didn’t know you were your mother’s daughter, that would have clinched it. Yes, she did kiss me first. Tell me, why is that important to you?” 

She shrugged, but then acknowledged, “I guess I am just curious. LP says a boy should always make the first move. But Mum did. And Laura did—I mean, you’re both ‘girls’ but she was the one…” 

“Becca, do you have someone you want to kiss?” I asked, returning her directness. 

She nodded. “Maybe. Some days, I think it’s LP. Other days, maybe Mason Jackson, he’s in my History group. He’s very shy, so I doubt he’d kiss me first. LP, well, she’s more upfront about things. But she’s already got her period and can be awfully moody at times.” 

“Ah, yes, young women can be. Well, both genders can be, but they may show it differently,” I said, steering the conversation back onto more familiar ground. Somehow, I wasn’t at all surprised that Becca openly expressed a sexual interest in persons of different genders. In our family—and Lulu’s—being LGBTor Q was as accepted as being right- or left-handed. Lulu’s older brother, Ian, was gay and in a long-term relationship with his partner, Geoffrey. But I hoped her friend LP’s “moodiness” would simply be hormonal rather than a chemical imbalance suggestive of major depression or bipolar disorder. 

“Is kissing a girl different from kissing a boy?” And just like that, Becca picked up the scent and was off and running. Or grilling. If she didn’t follow her mum into the law, she would make a fine detective one day, I mused. 

***

It was glorious to have a day to myself, just to wander up and down the shops, linger over books and then, having found a few I wanted and purchased, lingering further over a few chapters with an iced caramel latte. I could feel the tension in my shoulders loosen a little as I took in the sea air and the comfort of crashing surf. I remembered passing a day spa tucked into a corner building on a side street. I wondered whether—oh, go for it, Hobson! You could use a good therapeutic massage and maybe a special spa treatment. Finishing the latte, I scooped up my tote and headed to the spa. 

As luck would have it, the receptionist told me they’d had a cancellation for a 120-minute time slot, so I opted for their signature “Luscious Seashore” body wrap and a full-body deep-tissue massage. As I waited in their “tranquility” room for the therapist to retrieve me, in strode Lulu Harriman! We laughed when we realized we’d both ended up there, though she had booked her appointment as soon as she knew she was coming to Poole. 

“I didn’t think to ask you along because I knew they were fully booked and also didn’t want to interrupt your plans,” she said. I gave her a “No worries” wave. Her session was the same length; would she like to meet up later for tapas and a drink, I asked impulsively. She smiled and said she’d love to. 

The spa had a lovely, understated sea theme with pale gray and blue décor and black-and-white photographs of the sea, waves and serene horizons. The therapist, a short, trim woman about my age named Renata, ushered me into a small room with two sections: one tiled area contained a Vichy shower—a massage table with several shower nozzles over it—and a carpeted section with a massage table and welcoming flannel sheets and a plush blanket. Renata explained that the “Seashore” treatment involved an exfoliating sugar scrub in a light beachy-citrus scent and a hot towel wrap, followed by the Vichy shower to remove the scrub. I would then move to the other table for the massage and the session would finish with her applying the spa’s signature body butter to my skin for added hydration. 

The scrub tickled the soles of my feet but I enjoyed the invigorating, scratchy feel of the scrub and its beachy aroma. The music piped into the windowless room featured guitar versions of classic Bach pieces accompanied by the hypnotic sounds of waves. Once the hot towels were wrapped around me and Renata began massaging my feet as I lay face down on the table, I quickly drifted off with nary a care in the world. Placing a gentle hand on my shoulder, Renata let me know she was turning on the shower. I nearly moaned with pleasure as the hot water drenched the towels, warming them and me anew, deepening my relaxation. She removed the towels and then, holding a fresh one up for my modesty, she asked me to turn face up for the second half of the treatment. After re-covering my torso with a warmed towel, she applied the scrub to my arms and legs and then put me to sleep again with a glorious scalp and facial massage. I swear I woke myself with a snorted snore. I could picture Jill honking at me and wondered how she and Becca were doing at sea. 

After the luxury of the Vichy shower relaxed my fascia, Renata melted my muscle tension with interesting techniques; she would position my neck a certain way, apply noticeable but not painful pressure. Moments later, a stone-dense knot would flatten to nothing but healthy, oxygenated muscle. Or she would repeat a lighter, extremely slow push or pull that made me feel, in the best possible sense, like salt-water taffy. Like all good things, the session came to an end with the application of fragrant shea-based body butter. I thanked Renata for her gifted hands, intuitive spirit and for respecting my need for silence during the session. 

“Wow, you look 15 years younger,” Lulu marveled as she greeted me with a hug and linked our arms. She too looked rejuvenated and almost as giddy as I felt. “C’mon, I think I hear a couple of G&Ts and some tapas calling our names!” 

We sauntered down to the waterfront and settled into thickly cushioned chairs on a deck overlooking the water. We started with a tall bottle of San Pellegrino water to stay hydrated as we looked over the tapas menu. After each selecting one and taking the waitress’ recommendation for a special of the day, we sipped our waters and sank back into our cushy seats. Lulu giggled and told me she thought Jill was in for a “thorough grilling” from Becca about “things a girl would usually ask an aunt or older sister”. Comparing notes, we discovered neither of us had the benefit of an older sister, and, though I had Miss Katie, I could hardly ask her about the birds and bees. Lulu acknowledged she and “JRay” would often quiz each other about such things, sometimes finding “interesting” books at the school library or eavesdropping on upper-form girls’ chatter. 

We discussed our growing up with narcissistic, emotionally distant mums, and found we could complete each other’s sentences about situations or our respective mother’s behavior. I knew Jill understood, through her relationship with Lulu and seeing Lenore Harriman firsthand, what Lulu and I experienced. But it was affirming and strangely freeing to know someone who had unfortunately lived similar circumstances—the snide put-downs, belittling remarks, the emotional bricks we’d been battered with—and survived, thrived really, to become strong, compassionate women. 

Our glasses drained, we ordered crisp G&Ts to toast each other’s resilience. As she squeezed the lime slice around the rim of her glass, Lulu glanced over at me. “You know, I hope you know, how happy Hal and I are for you and Jill. Laura, I’ve never seen her so at ease and open as she is with you. Jill has always had a guarded side, parts of her she’s kept locked away from the few girlfriends she’s had.” 

I swallowed a savory mouthful of melted feta and roasted garlic on a shard of pita. “Why do you think she did that—or isn’t doing so with me?” I asked, honestly curious. 

Lulu considered. “I think it’s a combination of things. Losing her mum at such a young age. Her father and aunts gave her all the love and support they could. But, as you and I sadly both know, no one can truly take the place of a mother in a young girl’s life. It’s just my theory but I think Jill couldn’t let herself trust that a woman would stay around for her. So she could give herself to them fully. It didn’t help that Helen was an alcoholic and Jill broke up with a previous girlfriend because that woman drank to excess as well. Between Helen and you, Jill found herself an excellent therapist. 

“Then you came along. You were safe, in a way, because you were straight, as far as she knew, so she could allow a proper friendship to develop, and learn to trust that—to trust you. For years, Jill has had us, her bears and the force. Full stop. She’s an introverted, ‘still waters run deep’ sort of person, always has been. I could hear the excitement in her voice when she spoke of you and I kept my fingers crossed that she would meet someone like you to become involved with. Imagine my surprise—and delight—when it turned out to BE you!” Lulu said, raising her glass to me. 

We lightly clinked glasses. “Imagine my surprise too!” I admitted. “Here I am, 50 years old, never been with a woman and falling arse over teakettle for that gorgeous, butch blonde!” 

We laughed. “But tell me,” I asked, putting down my drink and dipping a chunk of crusty bread into the garlicky shrimp butter. “Has she always been so damned accident prone?” 

***

An hour later, we strolled back up the hill to the house, each knowing we’d made a new friend, rarer than hen’s teeth for many professional women. We found Becca sitting by the pool, happily knitting away, earphones on. She waved happily to us and mouthed “Shh!” and gave a nod in the direction of a sleeping Jill. 

Ballcap pulled low over her eyes, she lay napping on a chaise lounge. A hard-back book, open pages-down, covered her lower belly. Her lips moved and brow furrowed occasionally as I watched her, stealthily sitting down on the lounge next to hers. Suddenly, she stirred, gave me a lopsided smile and held out her hand for mine. 

“Hello you,” Jill murmured, her face sun-kissed, her nipples hardening as I felt mine do the same, simply from hearing that husky voice and beautiful face. “Did you get what you needed today?” 

Aware of Becca nearby, I simply smiled and lightly rubbed my hand with my thumb. “Oh yes, and then some.” I explained how Lulu and I met at the spa and then hung out together afterward.

“But, uh, there IS something else I need right now,” I noted, my blue eyes staring into her deep hazel ones. I sat up and bent close to her ear, reveling in the sight of the small hairs behind her ears rising up as I whispered, “Or…someone…we have time before dinner…” 

Jill’s eyes widened and she too sat up. “Right, well…” and she stood, slinging a towel around her neck to cover her chest, and we walked into the house and up the stairs to our bedroom at the far end of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, wonderful women, for encouraging and coaxing me along with this story. I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter out to you. (The next will be NSFW again .) I struggled with it and am also taking a demanding online course related to changing careers and adjusting to being back to work post-COVID furlough. 
> 
> Special thanks again to Claire07, BramwellBern, RainbowKatie, and JayO1969 for your support and enthusiasm. It means a lot.


	72. Aqua Spa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our women engage in some explicit f/f activity.

Laura positively glowed upon her return from the spa and self-care day she’d given herself. When she woke me from my cat nap—an absolute bloody necessity after Becca’s inquisition and a day on the water—she looked more relaxed and at peace than I’d seen in a few weeks. Her beautiful blonde hair shone like a halo with sunny highlights, the lines bracketing her mouth less prominent, her eyes sparkled. Her lightly freckled skin looked so smooth, my fingers nearly itched to touch it. And she smelled divine. 

When I closed the door behind us in our bedroom, I took in the sight of her as she put down her tote by the desk and turned to me, a saucy smirk on her face. I crossed to her in seconds, reaching out to gather her in my arms. 

“You are so stunningly beautiful, Laura,” I fervently whispered to her. I kissed her neck, loving the delicate pulse I felt under my sun-sensitive lips. “I feel like a sailor home from the sea, and you’re my treasure.” 

“Is that your new chat-up line? It’s not very good. I know you can do better, Captain Raymond,” she sniggered. Laura Hobson was going to make me work for whatever pleasure was to be had. 

I gave her a mocking bow. “You’re absolutely right, my love. I can. I’m going to let my actions speak for me with what I am sure will be greater eloquence…” I pushed her up against the desk and kissed her with all the passion I felt for her in my heart and throughout my body. She hesitated for a brief second before opening her mouth and granting my tongue access. I could taste the sharpness of the lime from her gin and tonic as our tongues danced. 

While I had been careful about hydrating that day, my body seemed parched and desperately thirsty for her. I licked, bit, and sucked on her lips and neck, inhaling her natural scent mingled with the bracing, enticing aroma of whatever lotion had been smoothed over her body at the spa. 

She wore a button-front olive linen shirt untucked over denim shorts. Staring into the deepening sea of her eyes, I very slowly untoggled each button, rewarding each patch of freckle-dusted skin with kisses and long licks. “God, so beautiful,” I assured her, and she let her head fall back so I had to return to her neck and start anew. 

Soon, her shirt was draped over the desk chair, followed in short order by her lacy bra, shorts and then knickers, though not before I’d pressed my palm against the damp center of them and chuckled at the whimper that slid past Laura’s lips. She gasped too as my fingertips grazed the small of her back. 

“I-uh, I have a confession,” she admitted. I stopped kissing her breast for a moment and quirked an eyebrow. “Uhm, during the massage today, I realized that my lumbus—the area you’re touching—is rather sensitive, ah, sensual for me. I don’t know why I never noticed or paid attention to it before but…” 

I quickly spun her so her front was against the chair back. “Ah…good to know, Doctor. I may have to test that myself,” I told her as my lips planted tender kisses over the middle of her lower back. I licked the Dimples of Venus, those indentations on either side of her spine, enjoying the moans of pleasure Laura made. 

“Bed. Can’t.stand.up.” Laura panted. “You.Clothes.off.”

I grinned, relishing how easy it was to render articulate, witty, well-educated Laura Hobson as primitive as a cavewoman. “Clothes bad, naked good?” I teased her, which earned me an exasperated look and a grumble. I walked her backward til her calves touched the bed and sat her at the bottom of the bed. 

Then I ever-so-slowly unhooked my bikini top. Laura’s mouth fell open. I looked down at my chest. My small breasts were pale circles in equally pale triangles—tan lines. She licked her lips. Guess she liked what she saw regardless of the hue. Especially as she watched my nipples pebble up before her eyes. She whimpered. I hooked my thumbs inside the bottom and down it came. More tan lines. Another mewling. 

“Maybe later. Right now, it’s my turn, darling.” I knelt on the carpet in front of her legs. I could smell her readiness as she opened her legs and lay down. Laura raising her legs so, from the knees down, her lower legs rested comfortably on my shoulders. “Oh, my love, you’re so ready for me, aren’t you?” I asked rhetorically, seeing the evidence firsthand. My hands reached under her to cup her arse cheeks, the very tips of my fingers stroking the small of her back, as my nose nuzzled her dewy mons. She writhed beneath my mouth, muffling groans with her hand. 

“Oh God, yes. Don’t stop, Jill…” Laura ordered, and who was I to disobey? With my mouth still pleasuring her clit, I entered her with two fingers then almost immediately added a third. I sucked, flicked my tongue over the swollen nub, my fingers enjoying the grip-and-release of Laura getting closer to coming. 

With a final strangled “Jill!”, she came hard, juices flowing over my hand and lower face. I lapped up what I could and fetched a fresh towel from the bathroom for her. I gently patted her dry and then lay down on the bottom half of the bed next to her, placing delicate kisses around her breasts but not on her nipples, which I knew got very sensitive after an orgasm. 

When her aftershocks subsided and she could move again, Laura wrapped her arms around me and kissed my head, which lay on her left breast, and carded my hair with her fingers. “That’s for an incredible climax. And that’s”—she swatted my bare arse cheek with the flat of her hand, making me yelp—“for the Neanderthal comment, you snarky wench.” 

"Spanking.good" earned me another "skelp", as Aunt Mickey would say.


	73. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out. No need for a rating for this chapter...for future ones: count on it! 

The next morning when we came down for breakfast, we received a few conspiratorial winks from Lulu and bewildered looks from Becca. Until the latter “got” what the winks were about and then she honked and bestowed us with a “Yay, Aunties J and L!” Much to Laura’s chagrin. (But then she was the one they might have heard during the overnight hours…even from the other end of the house.) 

After blessed mugs of coffee and plates of croissants, bacon and roasted mushrooms—courtesy of Becs, who made a mean English breakfast just like her dad—Laura and I explained that we planned to spend part of the day in Corfe Castle, some 30 minutes to the southwest of Poole. At the very least, given that her friend Miss Katie had highly recommended it, Laura wanted to bring the older woman a memento from the famed hilltop castle ruins. In our time together thus far, we hadn’t done much sight-seeing—neither of us felt Oxford crime scenes counted, as Laura drolly put it. So we were looking forward to spending several hours of the overcast day exploring the old village and castle. 

We took Laura’s Volvo. And I’m sure I wasn’t the first lesbian who watched her lover’s hands on the steering wheel and gear shift and felt a pang of envy for those car parts. She caught me staring and gave me a sparkling-eyed smirk. “What are you up to, Raymond?” 

“Just admiring the view,” I said innocently, though I’m certain my huskier tone gave me away. “You have very expressive, talented hands, you know. They, uhm---”

“—made you come twice last night,” their owner acknowledged with pride. They had indeed. Laura’s fingers, slender but strong, coaxed, teased and fucked two delicious climaxes from my core. Including once from behind. My own hands rose to cover my face as a robust blush bloomed on my cheeks. 

“Why Jill Raymond, you big butch detective inspector, I do believe you’re blushing!” she sniggered, pulling my nearest hand from my face. We both dissolved in laughter. She placed her surprisingly long-fingered left hand over my right hand as we continued down the road, delighting in the sea air and each other’s company. 

Under the thickly clouded slate-gray sky, the limestone fortification brooded over the small village that bore its name. As we approached, I could well imagine how William the Conqueror saw the site, with its commanding placement on a steep hill, when he hunted in the nearby royal forest of Purbeck. Parking at the base and checking in at the gate, we strapped our knapsacks over our shoulders and stared up at the ruins, which almost seemed to glower back at us via the crumbling outlines of window frames that hadn’t held glass for centuries.

Old fortresses don’t fade away, even as their stone walls turn to dust as do their former inhabitants. They stand as monuments to power, sometimes greed, always vigilance. Hand in hand, we climbed the long pathway up to the top of the castle, each of us keeping our own thoughts. I wondered whether Jim Baldrich and his team were making progress on Laura’s case and what Laura would do depending on the outcome. 

Reaching the top, we found we were alone; wiser souls, particularly those with kiddos in tow and a few older couples, had opted to return to the tea room or gift shop as the gathering of clouds grew and the wind picked up. We took off our packs and looked around. Birds scattered. The air felt eerie—somehow quiet and alive, breathing almost. The hair on the back of my neck rose and I could see Laura shuddered as she took in the beautiful if lonely walls. Within moments, we knew why. 

Laura’s phone rang, startling both of us. Jean Innocent. Laura and I locked eyes and I held her hand as she answered it. 

“Yes, she’s here. We’re alone. I’m putting you on speaker,” Laura told Jean as she tapped to open the line. We said a quick hello, and the chief superintendent took a deep breath and began to speak in a calm, neutral tone. 

In less than two minutes, Laura’s face seemed to register nearly every emotion, from anxiety to elation, from puzzlement to sorrow. A split-second of anger got spliced in as well.  
The crime lab had recovered similar animal hairs from each crime scene. It turned out they came from a very specific cat—a Persian mix…just like the one Michael Terrell cared for when his neighbor was away on business. Precisely that one, it turned out. The dates of each murder also matched the timeframe during which Terrell watched Diamond the long-haired, tortoiseshell cat. 

Baldrich brought Terrell in for formal questioning and planned to charge him in all three murders. During a break in the interview, Terrell went to the men’s loo, downed the lethal dose of cyanide he’d kept in a vial in his jacket pocket. He died within a minute with his solicitor and a police constable washing their hands mere feet away outside of the locked lavatory stall. Jim had planned to charge Terrell upon his return from the loo. 

“No, oh God no!” Laura cried out in rage and the tangle of emotions it comprised. Her knees buckled, and I held her up, bracing myself against the rough stone wall. I could feel the uneven surface biting into my back through my shirt but knew that paled in comparison to the pain Laura was feeling. Yes, the case was over. Closed. But another human being was dead, and no justice could reach him now but his maker’s. A bittersweet ending to the case for those who lost loved ones, for the detectives who worked so diligently on it and for Laura, an indirect victim because of her own thoroughness years ago. 

“Laura, Jill, I’m so sorry it ended this way. Jill, I’m adding a few extra days to your leave, if that’s ok with you,” Jean said, her concern reaching our ears as a salve. I thanked her for her kindness. After asking Jean to convey our thanks to Jim and his team as well, we rung off. Laura slid her phone back in her jeans pocket and then I cradled her in my arms while she sobbed. “Why? Why?” Laura asked, but no one could answer that, not even the howling wind. 

A sudden crack of lightening only a few miles away brought us up short. We were standing unprotected at the highest point around us. 

“C’mon, love,” I gently pushed Laura back and gathered both our packs. I strapped mine to my back and carried hers before she insisted on taking it from me. “Let’s make a dash for cover and lower ground.” 

The skies opened, pelting us with hard, cold rain as we ran down the gravel path toward the car park. By now, Laura’s was the only vehicle in sight save for a National Trust jeep parked by the entrance cottage. The rain slammed down as if the heavens were determined to wash away the awful news that we heard on top of Corfe Castle. Laura unlocked her car doors with the key fob and we scrambled to get inside. Suddenly Laura screamed in pain. In her haste to close the driver’s side door, her right foot didn’t make it inside the vehicle before she tried to shut the door. Her ankle took the brunt of the force. She managed to pull her foot inside but immediately reopened it to be sick from the pain and very likely the news she’d just received. 

I leaned over and held her in the car by the back of her shirt. By now, we were both soaked to the skin. I reached into my knapsack and pulled out a clean, dry bandana I’d stuffed down at the bottom. I handed it to her so she could wipe her face and mouth. “Darling…” I murmured softly. “Why don’t you get in the back so you can put your leg up and I’ll drive us home.” I jumped out of the car, dashed around to her side and helped her get out of the front seat and into the back. 

By now, her ashen face bore the pain coursing through her lower leg and her teeth began to chatter from cold and shock. “H-hold me. Just hold me, Jill,” she begged through her shivers. I stepped into the back seat from the other side, having retrieved a blanket I found in the back of the wagon, and covered us both with it as I held her. I wrapped her tight, repeatedly stroking down her arms in a comforting technique called “havening”. 

All the tension bottled within her over the past several weeks released in torrents of tears and soul-wracking sobs, mirroring the rain and thunder outside as if Mother Nature empathized. “I’ve got you, my love,” I assured her. I knew better than to say “Everything’s going to be fine” because I honestly didn’t know whether that was true. 

***

After what felt like forever, the rain slowed to a steady drizzle, my tears dried and the immediate shock of Jean’s news faded. I focused on Jill’s long arms holding me close…myriad thoughts and images whirling around in my mind. Sympathy for the families of Terrell’s victims, rage at his cheating them out of justice, relief that the case was now closed. And gratitude that Jim and his team had stopped him before someone else died a ghastly, premature death without a chance to say good-byes to loved ones and communicate last thoughts. I could feel in my very marrow that this case would haunt me. I would re-visit in my mind what I could have done to prevent even a single death. What if I had remembered Michael Terrell sooner? Did I miss signs during my interactions with him years ago that I should have caught? 

Gradually I became aware of the throbbing in my right ankle. I grunted and swore as I tried to rotate the joint. Damn. On the bright side, I didn’t think it was broken, (we’d later find out the bone had a small hairline crack from the ferocity of my effort to close the door against the driving rain). But it would be swollen and bruised like boxer’s face after several rounds. That I knew without even taking off my sneaker. 

“Laura, I have some pain relievers in my bag. Let me get them for you,” Jill said, releasing her hug. I moved forward and shifted over on the back seat to give her room. I probably did too but appreciated not having to search through my own knapsack at the moment. And sometimes it is comforting simply to be cared for. 

Jill found a blister pack of paracetamol, popped out two and placed them in my hand. She cringed. “Uh, maybe you should eat something first, eh?” remembering that I’d lost my breakfast outside the driver’s door. She fished through her pack again and came up with a colorfully wrapped granola bar. “Ta da! Once a Girl Guide, always a Girl Guide!” she chuckled, handing the bar to me. 

“You were a Guide?” I asked, teasing her a bit. Jill looked offended. 

“Why is that so hard to believe? I learned to sew, did community projects. Aunt Sally was our troop ‘mum’.” She looked adorable when she pouted. (Still does.) Her eyes got that melty puppy look and her brow furrowed. 

I swallowed some of the granola bar and took the two gel caps, washing them down with a swig of her proffered water bottle. “Thank you. It’s not difficult to believe, love. I was simply winding you up.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. Jill huffed but kissed me back and tucked damp hair behind my ear so she could look into my eyes. 

“Laura, I’m so sorry. I know that seems inadequate but…what do you need right now?” She peered at me with those deep hazel eyes, eyes so full of compassion and tenderness I wept anew. I thought for a moment, taking slow, calming breaths. 

“To get out of these wet clothes and into a hot bath. To have you with me, holding me. There may be times I’ll need space but now is not one of them,” the sentences spilled out of my mouth, my mind already working again, formulating plans. 

“Right, do you want to stay in the back here whilst I drive us back to the house? Ok if I text Lu and let her know what’s happened? That way, she’ll not ask a lot of questions and make sure Becca doesn’t either.” Jill freed her lanky frame from the back seat. I gave her affirmatives to both questions. She propped up my right foot on her knapsack, re-tucked the blanket around me, and then strode round to the driver’s door. Before getting in, she make sure to set the seat back farther than my 5’2” frame required. (She forgot to do so once and whacked the hell out of her knees trying to shoe-horn herself in.) 

The rain had eased again as we left the car park, now a good 45 minutes after Jean’s call. I must have dozed off, waking as Jill pulled the car into the driveway. The sun peeking through quickly drifting clouds like a child after a parental row, checking to see if the dust had settled and the coast was clear. Jill must have texted Lulu about my injury for she came out, sympathetic smile on her face, to help me inside. Both women loaded one of our packs on their shoulders and helped me into the house. The comforting aroma of soup and baking bread greeted us and Jill’s stomach growled like a wolf. I realized I had gobbled the granola bar without even offering her some. Oh boy, you were indeed in shock, Hobson, I thought. Jill and I had taken to sharing nibbles and forkfuls most meals. 

“Sorry, dreadfully perky metabolism,” Jill warded off the apology she sensed on tip of my tongue. “Let’s get you upstairs and into a bath. I’ll bring you some of that delicious-smelling soup when it’s done as well as an ice pack, hmm?” she said, as I gratefully accepted a hug from Lulu. From where we stood, I could see Becca was in the pool. 

“That sounds perfect,” I said, fiercely gripping Jill’s slender waist and the banister as we slowly made our way upstairs. She sat me on the toilet seat cover while she knelt beside the deep soaking tub. She tested the water temperature, nodded to herself when it was just right, stopped up the drain and added some of my shower gel to create bubbles. Holding up a finger to tell me to wait, she went into the bedroom and returned with a few candles that she lit and placed around the tub ledges. Warm, fragrant steam filled the room, making me relax more by the minute. 

“Would you like me to help you undress, sweetheart,” she asked through the fringe of blonde hair in front of her eyes. For once I felt shy and vulnerable. But I implicitly trusted Jill. She sensed my frame of mind and tenderly removed my damp t-shirt and bra. She motioned for me to stand, standing up herself to offer an arm of support while I unzipped my jeans and tugged them down to below my knees along with my knickers. The next part I was dreading. She had me sit again, after thoughtfully placing a warmed towel between the cold toilet seat and my bare bum, while she untied my sneakers. The left Converse and sock came off easily. The right, she delicately unlaced enough for me to slip my foot out, then eased the sock over my then-bulbous lateral ankle bone. I sucked in a breath as we took in the damage. 

“Bloody hell, Laura. Volvo Door: 1, Hobson: Nil,” she said lightly, cringing in sympathy. “Should I wait to kiss it and make it better?” 

“Yes, please,” I gave her a sheepish curl of my mouth. My ankle was in a purple phase as capillaries had burst and seeped blood around the joint tissue. “Fuck,” I muttered. “How am I to get in the tub?” We considered for a moment. Jill figured it out. She had me stand, supporting me again and shuffle over to the edge of the tub to sit. She quickly toed off her own sneakers, socks and jeans and stepped into the tub first so she could guide me into the water. Success! 

She then rested my foot on a rolled towel on the tub edge, re-dressed in her jeans, kissed me on the head and padded downstairs to gather the soup and other sundries. I sunk into the hot, relaxing water with a whimper of gratitude. A bath had never felt decadent and medicinal at the same time. 

Some minutes later, Jill reappeared, “How’s my darling girl?” she asked with a warm smile. She placed a tray with two large bowls of soup, thickly sliced and utensils on the bathroom vanity. 

“A lot better now,” I told her. Did I want soup now? Yes. Bread, fresh and hot from the oven, with Irish butter? Absolutely. “You say the nicest things,” I noted. She smirked and walked into the bedroom, returning with a simple chair to set as a tub-side table for me. The soup, she informed me in a horrendous French maître-d accent, was corn, bacon and shrimp chowder. While known more for her takeaway-ordering skills than culinary talents, Lulu nonetheless had mastered a few soup recipes over the years, and this was a Renfrew-Raymond/Harriman favorite, Jill explained as she lifted a spoon to her lips. 

I nodded in agreement as one spoonful followed another into my hungry mouth. “I can see why—it’s brilliant!” 

Slathering butter on the bread and handing me a slab, Jill noted that Becca was in a baking phase so the bread was her creation. Crusty on the outside, tender on the inside, the bread practically melted in my mouth. What a delightful meal. 

We ate in companionable silence, save for a moan of satisfaction here and there. Finally, Jill took the empty bowl from me. I started to shiver as the water cooled. 

“Here, let me empty some out and add more hot for you,” she said, putting aside the bowls and licking the rich butter from her lips (something I’d have been happy to do, given a different circumstance). 

“Jill…would you join me? I would love to feel your arms around me again,” I asked. She looked deeply into my eyes, wanting to make sure I meant it. “Really. Please,” I assured her. “I need this.” 

“You don’t need to ask twice,” she said, stripping off her jeans, knickers, t-shirt and bra. That body…as lithe as a doe’s, skin a contrast of deep tan and pale white…

I scooted forward in the tub so she could climb in behind me. I heard her hiss as her body sunk into the steaming water and then sigh as her back rested against the cool side of the tub. 

She gently pulled me back against her chest, spreading those long legs on either side of me. Her pubic hair tickled my bottom, her hard, little nipples kissed my upper back, her tanned arms crossed in front of me to hold me in a kind, loving embrace. 

As I rested my head against the crook of her upper chest and shoulder, I knew I was safe, loved, home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again to RainbowKatie for the tip about Corfe Castle. Sorry they didn't get to do more exploring of it. :-)


	74. Cedarwood and Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally time for Laura to "meet the 'rents". :-)

Soothed by the skin-to-skin contact and delicious comfort food, exhausted from the day’s events, Laura fell asleep in my arms. I held her until the water cooled to the point that staying in would have rendered us chilled. 

“Come on, darling,” I gently coaxed her awake with kisses to her rain-tousled hair. “Let’s get you out, dried off and tucked in good and proper.” Laura stirred and made little mews of protest, a wistful little girl not wanting to leave the cozy fort she’d made. “Oh love…” I murmured affectionately. Mindful of her ankle, I sat us both up and has her scoot forward so I could exit the water first. I tried to ignore her lustful gaze—definitely not that of a schoolgirl now—as she watched me climb out and roughly towel off and tie the bath sheet around my upper chest. 

“Easy, tiger,” I urged. “I still need to get you out of the tub!” She laughed at that, admitting she got carried away, as usual, by the sight of me naked, but no, she did not have the energy for anything more than a quick cuddle that night. I nodded knowingly as I helped her out, her arms tightly gripping my shoulder and waist. Sitting her on the toilet lid again, I wrapped her in a warmed bath sheet and lovingly dried her with another. I rubbed the ends of her hair, dripping with bath water, her shoulders, arms and legs, carefully patting her swollen ankle with the lightest dabs. She carefully moved it and decided she would try to put some weight on it. To her surprise, she could, and she used my arm more out of want than need as we walked into the bedroom. 

“Please,” Laura said earnestly. “Please take as much time as you want with Lu and Becca. I’m going to try to nap for a while. And thank them for the bread and soup—it was just what this doctor needed.” She settled in under the covers; I leaned forward and rubbed her back through the quilt. She closed her eyes and within moments was breathing the deep sleep of the utterly spent. 

I dressed in comfy sweats and padded downstairs to join Lu and Becs, carrying the tray with the empty bowls and utensils. “Your culinary skills were most appreciated, ladies!” I told them as I entered the kitchen-cum-great room. I loaded all but the tray into the dishwasher, poured myself a mug of coffee (true to form, my sister-in-law always has a fresh pot ready) with a splash of milk and sat down with them on one of the comfy leather sofas on either side of a long coffee table. The rain had begun again; Lulu had lit the gas fireplace for some toasty warmth and Becs added ambiance and scent with her candles. The walls shimmered with the golden glow from within the mercury glass candle holders. 

“How is Aunt Laura?” Becca inquired as she turned her knitting project—an adorable tweedy waistcoat for a lucky bear—and clicked off another row with her counting gadget. “Does she need anything?” 

I smiled at my niece’s thoughtfulness. “Becs, she’s napping now. It’s going to take some time for her to deal with the end of the case.” (I glanced at Lulu, asking with raised eyebrows “Does Becs know?” and received a nod and wink affirmation in return.) “This case hit Laura quite personally. She feels a degree of responsibility for the deaths—” 

“But she didn’t kill anyone!” Becca’s voice rose with emphasis. “And no one could have stopped that man from killing himself either.” 

I nodded. “Both those statements are true. And Laura did nothing wrong in her investigation into that man’s mother’s death. But she still will wonder whether she could have suspected him soon, can still feel for his victims and their families.” 

While she pondered those comments, I added, “And you have already done SO much for your aunt. For one thing, even simply by calling her ‘Aunt Laura’. Becs, you and your mum have made her feel part of our family, something that I sense has long been missing from Laura’s life.” 

“How’d you mean? Doesn’t Laura have family?” 

After savoring a sip of the rich coffee, I explained Laura’s background. My niece knew her own maternal grandmother was a hypercritical, self-absorbed woman. Getting the kids to visit Granny was like pulling teeth for Lulu and Hal even when Becca was a 4-year-old. By the time she was a precocious, wise-beyond-her-years 6, Becs made it clear she had no desire to continue such visits. (One of Granny Baker’s tricks—tried on any young woman—was to put out a plate of yummy bakery biscuits and then chide the girl for taking one because “it will make you fatter”.) I noted that while I hadn’t met the senior Dr Hobsons, Laura’s mum seemed a lot like Becca’s Granny. I knew the comparison hit home when Becca wrinkled her nose and pretended to gag. Her mother snorted and hissed like a cat, which had us all giggling. 

“Does she have any brothers or sisters?” Becca continued her line of questioning. A younger sister named Bea, I noted, who lived up in Yorkshire. 

“So you can see why your mum, dad and you being so welcoming to Laura has meant so much—to both of us,” I continued. I crossed the room to give her a hug and kiss. “Thank you, Becs. From both of us.” 

Becca returned the hug. “Aunt Laura is very easy to love,” she said emphatically. “Now when are you going to ask her to marry you?” 

***  
When indeed? I had thought about it, even considered raising the question (sans ring) as a possibility earlier that day at the castle, but then Laura got that awful phone call. Plenty of time for that, under better circumstances and on a brighter day, I told Becca and Lulu. 

“In case you didn’t know, we already consider Laura family,” Lulu said, and Becca echoed the sentiment with an emphatic nodding. 

After we chatted for a while, sharing stories and reviving old memories, we all glanced over as slow footsteps padded down the stairs. 

Adorably rumpled from her nap, Laura entered the room in a too-large navy hoodie and sweatpants. But for the marina-blue polish in her toenails and the lines of stress on her brow and around her mouth that her snooze failed to erase, she would have looked like an oversized toddler. She shuffled over with a vague limp, leaned into me as I stood and opened my arms to engulf her. 

“Good sleep, my love?” I asked into her hair, which smelled of the lavender bath salts and sea air. I felt her nod in my embrace. My lips pressed multiple kisses onto the thick blonde locks. 

“Mmm, exactly what I needed. And your cooking hit the spot, too, ladies,” she said with a smile that encompassed Lulu and Becca. She sat down on the sofa with me. “You know, my first instinct after the news this afternoon was to pack up, get in the car and drive home to cocoon alone,” she told us. “But you’ve—Jill and also you, Lu and Becca—have made me feel more at home than I could have imagined…” her eyes shimmered with tears. 

“You’re family now,” I told her, adding dryly, “These two have decreed it so you’re stuck with the lot of us. No ‘returns’ possible.” 

Laura laughed, a hearty, soul-deep laugh that let me know she would be alright in time. “I wouldn’t trade you for all the coffee in Costa’s and Starbucks combined!” 

***  
The next morning, our last in the beautiful coastal home, I let Jill sleep in (curled on her side, hair mussed, snuffling lightly) and walked with barely a limp down stairs to cook up a thank-you breakfast for the family—my family, I felt warm with love as I corrected myself. A dark chocolate bar with raspberry bits was chopped up and added to pancake mix. Thick-sliced bacon set to fry in the pan, coffee ground in the burr grinder, ready for a perfectly timed aromatic invitation. 

The swelling in my ankle was down significantly and the ankle joint had much better range of motion, though I would still ask Jill to drive us back. The bruising had deepened to vibrant purples and blues the colors of summer pansies along a walk. It would fade with time, as would the memories of the event, though the latter would sneak into my conscious from time to time and catch me up short. 

The previous night in bed, Jill held me when painful emotions overcame me and I sobbed uncontrollably for some time. She let me cry, knowing I needed to get it out, not be shhh’ed, told it would be ok, not judged. When at last my tear ducts dried up, I realized I’d soaked right through her sleep tee. 

“Oh hell, here, let me take this off,” I urged, sitting up and pulling on her sleeves. I half expected a quip, but she simply allowed me to lift the damp cotton shirt off her body. Her nipples perked into hardness. She looked away, embarrassed by the autonomic reaction, as she saw my eyes observe the change. 

“Sorry,” Jill murmured. I lifted her face so I could look into her rich hazel eyes. 

“Darling, please,” I whispered. “It’s an involuntary response…” but even as the words left my lips, I felt my seemingly endless desire for her spark to life and displace the pain. I leaned forward and kissed her lips, gently seeking entry to her mouth as my hands cupped her breasts. She granted my tongue entrance with a moan. 

“Can’t seem to say ‘no’ to you, Hobson,” she huskily murmured, her last nearly complete sentence for some time. I made tender love to her though with an urgent hunger. To feel the reality of her body, her love, like a touchstone. To feel that life would continue, that joy could spring up when least expected, that happiness wasn’t as far away as it had seemed earlier that day. 

*** 

As we lingered over breakfast, which, to my pleasure, garnered “yums” and “mmm’s” from all three diners, I turned to Jill, who sipped her second café au lait of the lazy morning.   
“So, isn’t it time I meet the rest of the Renfrew-Raymond clan?” I asked. And then immediately reached for a napkin to blot the front of Jill’s sleep shirt, spotted with coffee that had drippled from her suddenly opened mouth. 

“Yes, Granddad and The Aunties!” exclaimed Becca happily. “You must meet them, Laura. They’ll love you too!” 

Jill quickly recovered. “Uh, are you sure?” 

“Absolutely. We still have some days off…if that’s ok with you, and them?” 

Lulu chimed in. “They’re always up for a visit, Jill. And the property manager will have no problem finding you a place to stay overnight. One of the perks of being a Renfrew-Raymond, my dear,” she told me. She explained that when the conference center firm bought the entire estate, there was an arrangement that 1) the gamekeeper’s house would belong to the family in perpetuity and 2) there would always be a room or suite available for a family guest with a day or so notice. “If you call now, you could stay tomorrow night. Go on, Jill. Chop chop.” She pushed Jill’s phone toward her hand. 

Jill smiled. “Well, it seems I need to make a few calls. On one condition.” We all looked expectedly at her. “We stop by the church thrift shop first. I need more fabric for the bears. Can’t have naked bears scampering about.” 

***  
As expected, Dad and “The Aunties”, as Becca affectionately called them, were thrilled to bits for company in general and an opportunity to meet the much-heralded Laura Hobson in particular. Kate, the conference center manager, had a sweet surprise for us: after apologizing for a room not being available in the main building, she offered us one of the newly built country cottages. Designed to blend in with the woodland beyond the mansion, three one-bedroom cottages nestled amongst the trees down terraced, flower-dotted paths. The architect and landscape designer collaborated and consulted historical documents to ensure each unit would resemble fieldstone houses so common in the surrounding area. They had even weathered the exteriors, further enhancing their been-here-forever coziness. 

After driving home, spending the afternoon successfully winning back a grumpy Desmond’s good graces, unpacking and repacking for an overnight stay, we headed out in mid-afternoon. I drove, not only because I knew the way but to give Laura’s foot a rest. We had a beautiful day for the drive, clear blue sky, mild summer breeze carrying hints of late honeysuckle, lavender and gardenia as we wound our ways through the local village. At times, we chatted, checked out the scenery, but we were also comfortable with simply holding hands and enjoying the time together. About an hour outside of Oxford, I pulled the car over on the high street, kissed Laura and told her I wouldn’t be long, and dashed into the Higgins family’s bakery and market to pick up some of the sausage rolls that Dad and Mickey were particularly partial to, their cholesterol readings be damned. I knew the aunts would have homemade shortbread and other treats at the ready for our tea. And I picked up some of Dad’s favorite cherry pipe tobacco two doors down at the news agent’s and said a quick hello to Eileen who ran it after her dad died some years back. Dropping them back at the car, I drove the few streets to the Anglican church and its rectory-cum-thrift shop, located in a sizable brick Victorian that had been left to the parish by a wealthy congregant in the 1920s. 

Laura smiled indulgently. “You look like a kid eying Christmas presents,” she chortled, tapping my arm good-naturedly after I’d helped her exit the car. We slowly walked to the side entrance where the shop began. Once across the threshold, Laura nodded to me, wordlessly understanding my enthusiasm. The congregation clearly was a sizable one, even in these times, and well-heeled. The shop, with its high Victorian windows and hint of lavender and cedar to ward off moths, was a bear-maker and -haberdasher’s delight. Rows and rows of neatly organized vintage suits, tweed jackets, biscuit tins opened to display their myriad, interesting old buttons, steamer trunks overflowing with thick creamy aran fishermen’s sweaters and delicate women’s twin sets. A section of newer designer clothing held no interest for me—I oohed and ahhed excitedly over gray flannel trousers, a seersucker jacket and hangers bedecked with regimental silk ties. 

After a brief but heartfelt welcome-home chat with the two older women, friends of my aunts, behind the desk and introductions, I returned to my rummaging and Laura made a beeline for the trunks of handknit sweaters. At one point, I saw her writing something and handing it to Claire and Vicky as they ran her charge card. They smiled in a somewhat conspiratorial manner, with Claire touching a knowing finger to the side of her nose and Vicky winking at Laura. 

I brought my treasure drove of apparel to the counter for them to tally up. The shop volunteers giggled like teenaged girls and nodded to my girlfriend in a “Mum’s the word” promise. “Alright, ladies, I won’t ask,” I winked at them and we all laughed.

Several minutes later, as we approached the entrance to the estate-now-conference center, I grinned as I heard Laura’s sharp intake of breath. “Bloody hell, Raymond! You didn’t tell me we were starring in an episode of Downton Abbey!” 

***  
Jill honked at my comment and surprise. Straight ahead on the Wimbledon-court grounds, stood the “house”, as Jill, Lulu and Becca had casually referred to it. House my arse, I thought. With weathered stone and an enormous wooden front door, the former chez Renfrew-Raymond more resembled Castle Howard or Highclere Castle, albeit it on a slightly smaller scale. The Union Jack fluttered in front of the main door, flanked at a slightly lower angle by the faux-heraldic banner of the conference center’s emblem. Jill was still honking at me as she drove past the main building, taking a narrower curved road that led past a hidden-from-main-view car park, a sizable pond and grazing deer, and toward what turned out to be the rear entrance to the estate and a gamekeeper’s cottage that had been discreetly enlarged with an additional wing that matched the main portion of the cream-stucco home. 

Jill parked in front of the home, next to an aged Land Rover and a newer Mini wagon. The home, which had large, three-across windows and neat forest-green trim, seemed to be cuddled by flower beds bursting with all sorts and colors of flora and fauna. Each window was garnished with window boxes overflowing with assorted pansies and marigolds.   
Jill bent forward as she helped me from the passenger seat, her breath tickling my ear and sending warmth and calm throughout my body. She squeezed my shoulder.

“Now remember, they already have heard a LOT about you and already love you…maybe not quite as much as I do but the day’s still young.” I took a deep breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and relaxed. She was right, I was eager but also anxious to meet her family, having no true compass of reference given my own disastrous clan. 

The nearer of two doors opened wide with shouts of “You’re here!” and “Hello, hello!” that reached my happy, if nervous ears, before I saw the cheerful owners of the voices. First across the entrance, I knew was Aunt Sally, for the resemblance to her niece was unmistakable in her tall, lanky frame and brevity of motion. Gray-blonde hair pulled back in a small bunch like Jill’s often was, well-loved navy cardigan and maroon t-shirt over faded jeans. She reached out her arms to clasp my upper arms and smile at me. “At last!” Sally Renfew-Raymond beamed, a more wrinkled version of Jill’s happy puppy smile. 

“Wait for me, slag!” called a short, stocky woman in a husky voice that retained most of its Glaswegian origin. Clad in a faded flannel shirt, olive khaki trousers and sturdy brown brogues, she quickly hobbled up to us, propelled by two canes. “She’s so bossy, this one,” she mock-complained about her beloved. “Hiya Laura, I’m Mickey,” she continued after deftly stabilizing herself and giving the distinguished Sally a playful swat on her bum. 

“Mickey,” Jill said, rushing to her side after kissing Sally. “You’ve ditched the scooter!” 

Mickey ran a hand over her white crewcut and beamed up at her niece. “Been werkin’ hard tae keep up with this one, who never stops.” She nodded fondly at Sally, who placed her arm around the shorter woman’s waist and kissed her head. 

“And bringing up the rear, as usual, behind these two troublemakers,” called a tall, dignified man with graying red hair in a chambray shirt and well-worn khakis. “Laura, I’m Jill’s padre, but please call me Conrad or Connie, as family and friends do.” He held out his large hand to me and then gently leaned forward to plant a charming kiss on the back of my hand. 

We fetched the packages from the car boot and all walked in together, Jill hanging behind to allow the aunts and her father to pepper me with compliments and questions as we entered the home, which smelled of vanilla, cinnamon and Connie’s cherry tobacco. Though fairytale quaint on the outside, the home’s interior reflected the more modern sensibilities of its occupants. The wood-paneled, book-lined parlor/living room, dining room and kitchen had been rebuilt as one large, open space. I learned, during the five-pence tour that each resident had his or her own study and there were two wings—one for the aunts, another for Connie. 

Sally, as Jill had told me on our drive up, still did freelance writing and editing on gardening—her face lit up as she accepted my enthusiastic compliments about the landscaping. Sally’s study was aesthetically lean like its owner, with books, proofs and plants each having their assigned place. A few delicate watercolors of plants, from flower to roots, hung around the white-washed room. 

Mickey edited cookbooks—baking was her speciality—and, until her strokes, had provided the brawn for her spouse’s gardening endeavors. Her study, as cozy as a character’s lair in The Wind in the Willows, reflected her tough, solid exterior and sentimental heart. Family photos in antique frames showed generations of proud working-class Scots, some wearing military dress, others in Sunday-best dresses and suits. The Saltire hung on one robin’s eye blue wall, a rainbow flag adorned another. She had a leather wing back recliner alongside a table stacked with books. Her desk was a cheerful mess—I instinctively knew Mickey would know where any specific item lay if asked. 

Conrad’s study seemed a combination of the aunts’—mid-century modern furnishings coexisted with family antique clocks, oil-painted portraits and a collection of pipes and fly-fishing paraphernalia. 

The kitchen reflected the needs of a serious baker and a familial love of good food and country entertaining. Decorated, like the great room, in an Arts & Crafts manner, with pale green walls, white old-school, though high-end, appliances, it was welcoming and highly functional. 

Back in the main room, as the aunts made and brought tea and treats aplenty, I was stunned to realize I had neglected two other residents: a slumbering Scottish deerhound lay in front of the fireplace with a tiny long-haired black cat on its back. The cat acknowledged our presence with a loud purr but continued to wash the drowsy dog, who slowly opened one caramel eye but closed it and sighed contentedly after deciding we were harmless. 

“Ah,” said Jill, grinning, as she knelt on the rug in front of them. “We saved the best for last. Allow me to introduce Anne with an ‘e’ and Ann (who usually goes by ‘Smidgeon’). Lister and Walker. They’ve been inseparable since The Aunts brought big Anne home as a pup two years ago. Smidgeon, supposedly a barn cat at the deerhound kennels, apparently snuck along for the ride so they wouldn’t be parted.” Jill ran her long fingers over the big dog’s wiry, gray-toned coat and let the cat rub her nose against her hand. 

We settled in on comfy leather sofas and chairs. Sally poured the tea and Jill helped pass around the three-tiered afternoon tea dish. Jill mouthed “You ok?” to me and I happily rewarded her with a smile and a wink. 

“Never better,” I mouthed back, surprising myself. Connie caught the silent exchange as he tamped fresh shreds of tobacco into his pipe. He smiled knowingly at me.   
“So how did you two meet?” he asked. And Jill and I took turns explaining our first connection in that Oxford alley way. Our audience seemed captivated. The ladies cheered and laughed when we told them of shared coffees—“Jill lives for coffee, as you’ve clearly learned”—of Desmond and Jill’s relationship, of falling in love. Sally and Mickey passed a smile between them when Jill said “How could I not fall in love with this amazing, beautiful woman?” 

They made me feel like I had known them forever, less an honored guest, though I certainly was that, and more a part of the family, exactly as Lulu and Becca had forecast. Mickey welcomed me with winks and teasing; Sally with a gentle hand on my arm. They plied us with shortbread filled with bittersweet chocolate and sharp chunks of candied ginger, homemade scones with local jam, the sausage rolls Jill had bought, cups of strong tea and enclosed us with love and much affection. 

Jill, conscious of the time and the age of our hosts, called it an evening after several hours, and we bid farewell til the next morning, when, as Connie noted, we’d be expected at 9 for a full English breakfast. 

“I’m glad you’re driving to our cottage. I don’t think I could fit behind the wheel right now,” I murmured, patting my full stomach. Jill honked. 

“So I’ll have to, um, fend for myself tonight, hmm?” Jill said as she slid her lanky form into the driver’s seat and started the engine. 

“I didn’t say that…but you will need to give me some time. I feel like I just attended a hobbit’s tea party!” 

Within a few moments, after passing the beautifully inviting main building, we turned down a narrow lane and the car headlights guided us toward a pretty stone cottage in the woods. The staff had put the lights on for us and lit a fire in the stone fireplace. A vase of red roses stood on the coffee table. 

“Oh, this is heaven. This whole day has been heavenly,” I commented softly as we put down our luggage and took in the comfortable double chaise lounges with side tables, writing desk, kitchenette and stairs leading to the cottage’s lone bedroom. We scrambled up the stairs to view the quilted king-size bed that faced a sizable window overlooking the forest. Although other windows faced the estate, the bedroom view afforded occupants unparalleled privacy. 

Jill walked up to me from behind and held me in her arms, her chin resting on my shoulder. “The en-suite has a soaking tub and a sizable shower. Care to see?” 

The warm, sensual glow of several candles greeted me as I approached the threshold. Jill had run a bath for us too, and the room felt like a beautiful cocoon. “You’re so gorgeous,” she whispered in between the soft kisses she placed on my neck. An internal flame sparked to life in my groin. “Will you share a bath with me? I know it’s been a long day for you. Let me take care of you?” 

She didn’t need to ask twice…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I've inserted a few "Easter eggs" as tokens of appreciate for the encouragement and support of friends. Thanks to RainbowKatie for suggesting I honor my Scots roots via Mickey. So sorry for the delay in adding to this work. Besides taking (and acing!) a college course, I had to address some household issues. Don't worry, these two won't be strangers--already working on the next chapter and have a few ideas tucked away for one-offs too. :-)


	75. Vanilla and Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, the ladies have minds of their own...

“You’re spoiling me, Jill. I could easily get used to this,” I muttered as Jill expertly soaped my back and then reached around me to give the same—ok, truth be told, more detailed, lingering attention—to my chest. 

Jill moaned as her sudsy fingertips slid over my taut nipples. “Not sure who’s spoiling whom, darling,” she whispered, her husky tone sending fresh shivers down my spine. I took her right hand and placed it lower. I knew the steamy water temperature and the day’s events had indeed left me tired but a Jill Raymond “nightcap” had become my favorite sleep-inducing tonic. 

“Right, I could do with a bit more indulging then,” I told her, fitting her long deft fingers precisely where I wanted and needed them. I whimpered as Jill found the right spot but then circled lower to slowly enter me. 

“All in good time,” she admonished, biting my shoulder lightly to distract me. Her left hand played a counterpoint to what her right was doing. My God, how had I done without a woman’s touch—without Jill’s touch—all those years, I wondered for a flash before her actions dissolved my ability to form any thoughts. 

Within a few exquisite minutes, she had me collapsing against her chest in the liquid afterglow of a fierce orgasm. 

Once again, as the night before, she held me close, adding more hot water and then helped me towel dry with deliciously warmed bath sheets. She tutted but then allowed me to dry her as well, pausing over her just-right breasts, slim hips…she let me push her back onto the chair in the bedroom and ravish her with my eager tongue as I found a second wind. “Oh God, yes…Laura,” she cried out, hips bucking while I kept my mouth engaged on her sensitive clit. Afterward, she lay back in the chair, legs splayed, arms limply over the chair arms, breathing heavily, her body rippled by a few aftershocks. 

“Ok. Bed now,” she managed in a slightly slurred drawl. I stood up and pulled her up, an admittedly smug expression on my face. “Pleased with yourself, aren’t you, Hobson?” Jill observed as she pulled back the covers and slid naked into bed. 

“As they say in the America Midwest, you betcha,” I told her, getting into bed on the other side and scooting over to lay my head between her shoulder and chest. She reached over with a grunt to set the alarm on her mobile so we would be up in plenty of time for breakfast. We fell asleep quickly, wrapped in each other’s arms. 

*** 

True to their word, Sally and Mickey had a full breakfast on the side table ready at the dot of 9 am. (And I brooked no distractions from Dr Hobson that morning, swatting her hands away from my chest as I reached for my shirt. “Good God, woman. Sunday’s for rest!” I said with mock-righteous indignation.) 

The side board could have groaned with bacon and sausage from the local butcher, freshly baked bread studded with sunflower and flax seeds and laced with local wildflower honey from a friend’s apiary, fried mushrooms and tomatoes and fresh berry scones. Although tea was at the offer, two French presses of strong coffee (albeit one decaf, as Mickey grumbled) got Laura and my attention, much to the amusement of my elders. 

“Be prepared to sprout hair on your chest,” Connie cautioned Laura. “Those two Sapphic wonders aren’t happy unless the spoon stands straight up in their cup.” After a peck on my cheek, he reached for the decaf and poured some in Mickey’s cup and then his own. “Doctor’s orders,” he groused, with an acknowledging “Hmmph!” from the short Scotswoman. Today, Mickey wore a spotless white tee-shirt under a brilliant blue-dominant tartan waistcoat. The Carmichael tartan, she proudly told us when I admired it. “Sally had it made for me in Edinburgh for our last anniversary.” She beamed at her wife, who returned the glaze completely. 

“I made her wait to put it on until after she’d baked this morning,” Sally noted. “Everything ends up on the ‘food shelf’ with my Mickey, doesn’t it, love?” Mickey laughed. “Och, you’re just jealous, hen.” We all joined in the merriment. 

Sally told Laura that they’d heard from Becca about her knitting hobby and asked what she was working on. Then it was my turn to look on with pride at my partner as she spoke passionately about her craft and current projects. I was grateful to them for not asking about Laura’s work during that visit; they knew instinctively that, given the past week, such a subject, however interesting to these intellectually curious souls, was off-limits at that time. Any gracious bone in my body had been inherited from these individuals—Sally and Dad via nature, Mickey via nurture—and they’d given me a priceless education outside of the classroom in so many ways. 

At one point, whilst bringing another sip of coffee to my lips, I noticed Dad staring at me, one hand absentmindedly stroking Anne’s elegant head. I tilted my own head and quirked a “What’s up?” look at him. He shook himself at being caught. “She’s the one,” he mouthed to me across the table. “THE one,” he added. I blushed and suddenly felt shy, like a 15-year-old admitting her first big crush. I nodded. 

He gave me a joyful grin that I will always treasure. I captured it in my mind’s eye to hold for as long as memories last. 

I remembered when, during my 12th summer, a few months before I realized I was a lesbian, I shared with him that a boy I had fancied had gone for another girl.   
“The right person is out there for you,” my father said, putting his arm through mine as we walked through the forest one evening. I heard what I wanted to hear at the time, correcting the word “person” with “boy” or “man” even. But Dad was a precise speaker. He had meant “person”. When I did come out to him some time later, I realized what he had said. That was deliberate, wasn’t it, I queried him. You knew then. 

“I guessed,” he replied, his voice kind and thoughtful. “But then, growing up with your aunt…I just had a hunch.”

As we were leaving some hours later, after promises to return soon, Dad hugged Laura and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. She smiled in response, nodded with a solemn expression on her face, and returned his hug, adding a kiss to his cheek. 

Several miles down the road, I turned to her. Laura had her hand tucked under my left thigh, as she often did, so I had both hands free if necessary, and a thoughtful look on her face. “Darling, what did Dad say to you as we left?” 

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “He told me, uh,” she took a breath, started again. “He told me to look after you. He said, ‘You take good care of her.’ No one’s ever said that to me before.” She removed her hand from under my leg and placed it over my hand. 

Suddenly, I pulled off the road and stopped the car. I knew what I had to do. Laura looked at me, stunned, as I reached into the left front pocket of my jeans and gripped the circular object I found with all my might. 

“Marry me? Laura, will you marry me? I don’t know where or when, but I simply know I love you with all my heart and want us to spend the rest of our lives together. This is not how I thought this would be—at the side of a road with sheep in a field (I laughed nervously) –and if it’s too soon or---” self-doubt crept into my previously steady, excited voice. 

“Oh Jill, yes! Yes!” 

And with several Oxford down sheep as quasi-interested witnesses, we laughed with joy and hugged across the gear shift before we each trotted round to embrace completely in front of the car. I handed her the ring, my paternal grandmother’s Edwardian gold signet ring. I explained the delicate cursive monogram, “HR”.   
“Her name was Honor Ramsey, then, of course, Honor Ramsey Renfrew-Raymond. I asked Sally for it this morning because, to me, the initials could stand for ‘Hobson Raymond’, you see.” 

The beautiful heirloom fit on Laura’s left ring finger as if custom sized for it. She quieted my nervous chatter with a deep, passionate kiss. 

“Baaah!” exclaimed one black-faced ewe, who had thrust her head through the fencing to stare at two middle-aged women snogging the daylights out of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a real-life experience of sorts with my own late father. Thank you, Dad. And there's homage to my late MIL, Scottie, who, as I left her home after our first meeting, said much the same to me as Connie said to Laura. Thank you, Scottie. I hope I've succeeded. :-) 
> 
> The ladies sprung their marriage proposal even on me! But, rest assured, this is not the last we'll hear from Jill and Laura. Thank you SO much for all your kind words, encouragement and even--or especially--the corrections from American English and customs to British English and UK customs. I have some familial knowledge and did some research, but fans are a far better source than "Dr Google" any day. LOL


	76. Chapter 76

When we came up for air several minutes later, we burst out laughing. 

Our first nosey parker had been joined by several of her kinfolk or, uhm, herd. A dozen or so ewes and older lambs had trotted over to see the commotion of Jill and I kissing. Giddy with joy, I “baa’d” back at them. Which, in turn, made Jill honk and the sheep seem terribly confused. Some immediately bolted away from the strange blonde-headed being. Others simply stared, whilst a few of the younger ones seemed to assume they’d found a friend and called back at her. 

“Sorry, girls,” I quipped to those remaining by the fence, placing a possessive hand on Jill’s chest. “Not only is she taken but you can’t be flower girls either.” 

“I say, Dr Hobson, that’s a bit harsh. Mabel over there looks absolutely crestfallen. Already had her fascinator sorted,” Jill retorted. Our exchange had us losing it again and we laughed until tears escaped our eyes. 

Finally, we got back into the car. I leaned over and cupped Jill’s face, flushed with happiness. “In case you didn’t know, I love you beyond the galaxy and back—the moon’s not far enough to adequately account for it. You are the dearest, sweetest, sexiest, most loving, most beautiful soul in the world.” 

“No, love, that would be you,” she chided me. “I never thought I could love someone as deeply, as fiercely as I do you. I’ve never loved anyone like this before.” 

I happily filed this away for any moment of self-doubt. “How did this come about, the impromptu proposal? Unless you and Mabel there planned it.” 

She honked and shook her head, fringe falling into her eyes before she gave a head flick to move it. “Mabel & Co. were a last-minute addition.” She kissed the hand on her cheek and then took it in her hands, gently rubbing the back of it with her thumb. “I’ve been thinking about asking you to marry me for some time now. Lu and Becs asked when I would. And then, yesterday, Sally and I were walking in her garden…”

***

The day before, in Sally’s garden

My aunt told me years ago that her idea of gardening was to let nature put on a fireworks display. “Short bursts, long, dramatic pauses, sound, flashes of color that seem to linger in the very air of our memories.” Her gardens over the decades they’d been in the cottage never failed to dazzle, but they also included a bench for musing and contemplation amidst the blooms, scents and kaleidoscope of colors. Usually, next to the koi pond, so one could hear the steady flow of water and relax into the whole experience of a Sally Renfrew-Raymond landscape. She took few commissions these days, though took every advantage of modern technology to create landscape designs that could be emailed for local firms to carry out. 

We sat, thighs touching, on the weathered teak bench, which bore a brass memorial plaque to Kiri, a Russian blue cat of theirs that lived to the ripe old age of 16. I marveled at Sally’s hands, resting in her lap, blue veins prominent now but hands still seemingly untouched by arthritis, nails neatly trimmed, the RC signet ring on her left middle finger now that it slid off her ring finger too easily. 

It was a R-R family tradition that engaged couples exchange signet rings with their last initials. We Renfrew-Raymonds and our beloveds always seemed to have our hands in something—garden dirt, baking dough, car engines, wool—where jeweled rings could snag and precious gems could be lost. So, taking a cue from Dad and Sally’s grandmother, Honor (a sculptor and potter), we gave flat-topped gold signet rings. 

“I’m so glad you brought Laura here to meet us, Jilly,” Sally’s warm voice broke through my mental ramblings. “You’re so lovely together—she complements you and vice versa. I can see why Lulu, Hal and even Becca adore her. And it’s good to see you looking so happy and content.” She placed her hand over mine for emphasis. 

“I’m glad too. Glad you like her. Mickey seems to be smitten too,” I quipped, nodding to the large kitchen window, where Mickey’s voice could be heard as the shorter women prepared a light tea for us all. 

“She’s the slag, not me, you know,” Sally retorted with a snort, though it was all in jest. Margaret Isobel Carmichael had only ever had eyes for Sally, since the day they met at a farmer’s market, one searching for iris bulbs, the other for a particular variety of lavender for baking. 

“Sally, I’d like to continue our family tradition, you know,” I pointed to her ring. “Do you still have Honor’s ring? Would you consider parting with it?” 

Sally sat up straight. “You mean, to give to Laura? Oh my dear, of course I have it and of course you can have it to give to her! And it already has the right initials—of course, you knew that, you cunning girl.” She pulled me into a hug, arms round my neck, added a cheek kiss as a bonus. “Do you plan to do it today, here?” 

I hugged her back, feeling, with a tinge of sadness the lessened muscle depth that comes with age. “Um, not here. Not because I wouldn’t want to share that with you, Mick and Dad, but because I don’t want to overwhelm Laura in front of ‘parental’ figures. She doesn’t have the same relationship with her parents, particularly her mum, as I do with you three and I wouldn’t want her to feel awkward.” 

Sally nodded. “It was the same with Mickey and her mum, aka The Shrew. Say no more, Jilly. It’ll be wonderful to know you have it and will ask Laura when the time is exactly right for you both.” She stood and hurried inside to retrieve the ring. 

“Slag!” greeted her as she entered through the kitchen. “Oh, you! Don’t you listen to her blather, Laura, she’s the slut,” I heard Sally tell Laura. I smiled and leaned back on the bench with a contented sigh. God willing, Laura would say yes and we could share as many happy years together as Sally and Mickey. 

***

On the ride back to Oxford…

I grinned at Jill’s re-telling of the conversation between her and her aunt. “Mickey is a character. And she obviously adores Sally…as much as I do you. I think I’m a little more introverted than Mickey but we do have the same Mutt-and-Jeff height thing going on as Sally and Mickey,” I noted. 

Jill nodded, as she turned off the A44. “Mick loves to kid Sally. Sal calls her ‘My very own Glaswegian minion,’ they balance each other quite well. Mickey can be quite introspective and has helped me a lot to understand human nature and even what it’s like to have a narcissist as a mum. I mean, I get it on an intellectual level but she has helped me truly understand what impact that dynamic can have on a daughter.” 

I bristled a bit. “You talked to her about me and my mother?” 

Jill slowed the car and pulled into a parking spot. “Darling, yes. Remember, Mickey and Sally raised Hal, Gerard and me, particularly me, given how young I was when our mum died. My aunts are essentially mums to me and we’re quite close, as you can see. I asked her so I could have a better sense of what you might have experienced.” 

I crossed my arms, still feeling a bit emotionally vulnerable. “Why didn’t you just ask me?” 

Jill reached over, stroked my upper arm, her voice soft but earnest. “I would have but you seemed to shut down whenever the subject of your mum came up. I didn’t want you to feel like I was interrogating you. And Mickey and I have spoken about her mum before over the years. She’s done quite a bit of work on herself—she had a good deal of anger about it when she and Sally met, and Sally asked her to work on it.” 

I uncrossed my arms, defensive anger and fear uncoiling in my stomach, which always knotted up when the subject of my mother came up. Jill was trying to do what a loving partner would, better understand me. She didn’t mean to gather information to use as future ammunition for an assault, as Hazel Hobson would have. 

“I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong. I-I argh…she just brings out the worst in me. I’m glad you have had Mickey to talk with about this. I didn’t know that about her, her background. Maybe…do you think she’d talk with me? Maybe give me pointers?” 

Jill kissed my lips ever-so gently. “Yes, my love. I’m sure she would. You’re family to her, to all of us.” 

Apart from my sister Bea, I didn’t really have a good real-life family experience. But I had a feeling that the collective Renfrew-Raymond clan gave me an opportunity to forge one, just as loving Jill had shown me that I was worthy of love and capable of loving someone in return. 

She looked expectantly at me, I nodded. “Drive on, MacDuff! I want to get home and call Bea with the news. But only after I find a way to say yes all over again.” 

She gulped visibly, her hazel eyes darkening with desire. “Right, I’ll just…”

I coaxed her along as she drove, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel, telling her what I wanted to do to her when we got through the door. My big macho detective inspector squirmed in her seat as my whispers hit home, teasing her, owning her. She bit her lower lip, whimpering a tiny bit as my fingers flicked across her chest, visible to only her in the darkness of evening. 

True to my word, I pounced on Jill the moment all the luggage was inside the house and Desmond had been fed. (Though he seemed a bit miffed about my absence, he gave Jill a hero’s welcome, silly boy.) 

She sat on the sofa next to Des; I lost more points with him when I shooed him off the sofa so I could straddle Jill and kiss her passionately. My fingers tingled with anticipation as I undid the buttons of her denim shirt and they felt as if they shot sparks as they alit on her breasts. 

“Yes,” I murmured between kisses. “Yes, and a thousand times yes.” I reached round her slim torso and unhooked her bra, musing at how quickly I had acquired that skill. And how I never tired of seeing her nipples pebble and stand proud as the ambient air reached them. And how my lips found them, suckled them, as if for the first time, with that sweet, pebbled texture. Yes, I thought again, relishing the moan emitting from deep in her throat, the way her neck extended back in sensual pleasure.

“Oh Laura, God…” Jill uttered, her voice husky. She tried to take off her shirt but I stopped her, telling her she was all mine as I eased her out of it and began working on the buttons of her skinny jeans. I allowed her to raise her bum and tent her knees so I could more easily pull the jeans and her knickers off, which came off together, leaving Jill naked and panting on the sofa. Her hair was gloriously pre-fucked mussed, her coltish legs open, her eyes never left mine as she whispered, “I’m yours, Laura. All yours, only yours.” 

I stripped off as quickly as I could, her stare urging me to hurry. 

I dove in.

***

Laura had me wet and pining from the moment she told me what she wanted to do once we got home. It took all my years of driving to stay on the road when she began playing with my breasts. Fortunately, we arrived home to hers in a few minutes. She gave me a few moments’ respite when she tried to cajole Desmond out of his sullen mood (though he strut right up to me for loving, ha!). 

Then she was literally on me, pushing me back onto the sofa, astride my lap, and making me gasp with need as my lower lips snugged together. Bloody hell. She kissed my neck, the pulse points, those sensitive spots just below my ear lobes, the notch between my collarbones, my eager mouth. She plucked off my bra with ease—and some pride, I sensed—and locked on to my breasts with her lips and then her teeth. 

Dear God, what she did to me. I nearly came from her mouth on my breasts alone. But just as the pressure built between my legs, she reached for the top button of my jeans. I knew to stay out of her way so complied by lifting my arse and knees so she could slide my jeans down. She wound up taking my soaked knickers too, a wolfish grin flickering across her mouth as she caught a whiff of my desire and then stared directly at my groin. 

Then I was naked and aching for her touch, her tongue, her fingers on me, inside me. “I’m yours,” I told her. I might have said more but was so keyed up, clit throbbing, that I can’t recall. I watched, hunger rising all the more, as she quickly undressed and then returned to the sofa. She elicited a deep groan from me when her lips kissed my wet, swollen labia. 

Yes, she whispered, and I felt the word vibrate to my core. “You are mine.” 

Laura lavished attention on my labia and clit, using her tongue and lips to flirt, tease and fuck. My fingers raked through her thick head of hair as my bucking hips urged her on. Her own right hand continued to rub my breast, the left held me to her. Her moans mingled with mine just as her saliva blended with my glistening need. I rode higher and higher, her voice spurring me on with “That’s it, love…you know you need this…Come on, Jill. Come for me, babe.” And with a final hip thrust and shout, I did. 

Though I could barely move, Laura did, rising up to her knees and slipping two fingers inside me. “I’m not done with you yet, darling,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. I couldn’t even manage a “Bossy thing, aren’t you?” quip before she began fucking me hard and deep into a second climax. 

When I finally washed ashore some moments later, I looked down at the smirking woman moored in my arms. “So…that was a ‘yes’, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos and appreciation. They spur me on. More from these two soon!


End file.
